


Honor and Armor

by bango31



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Bounty Hunters, Chiss, Mandalorian, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 75,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bango31/pseuds/bango31
Summary: A bounty hunter must face the consequences of decisions made throughout his past as he unknowingly works against forces who seek his demise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written over the course of about four years and I wrapped it up in 2013. It's set within the Legends timeline, primarily 16 ABY, but different parts tell a different story from the main character's past.

* * *

  **PART I: The Hunt**

Present - 16 ABY

* * *

 

The blue and green sphere of Corellia greeted the modified freighter _Spartus_ as it dropped out of hyperspace. Jag Girran plotted a course for the night-side of Gus Talon, one of Corellia’s moons, and returned his focus to a recent Corellian Security Force report. He had left the Corporate Sector several days earlier after reading a similar report, particularly because of a few lines of text:

_Wanted: Eres Telnor. Chev male. Responsible for the murders of nine Corellian corporate heads. Suspect in twelve additional homicide investigations. Considered Armed and Dangerous. Bounty posted by CorSec; 390,000 cr._

Bounties totaling nearly four hundred thousand credits didn’t pop up every day. Jag had set his eyes on the Telnor bounty the hour it was posted. Given the amount of money he had recently sunk into what he considered “operating costs”—primarily an upgrade to _Spartus’_ hyperdrive—his accounts could use some padding. Unfortunately, he had had to divert his focus elsewhere before the hunt begin, as Jag had caught wind of a newcomer in the hunt.

Jag now found himself jockeying for control of the hunt with another bounty hunter—a Dug named Rokor—whose skills rivaled that of a novice. The dug, like most members of his species, was brash, stubborn, and unreasonably overconfident. Jag would have to deal with the Rokor distraction first.

Once Jag tucked the _Spartus_ away in the shadow of Gus Talon, he powered down most of the ship’s systems. He was safely out of reach of Corellia's gravitational pull and could remain undetected by sensor sweeps and overzealous patrols. The advanced sensor suite he had installed in his ship would not only give him an edge in detecting ships dropping out of lightspeed, but it would also reduce the risk of detection by any opposing sensor sweeps.

The recent Republic regulations on shipping lanes for the region had rerouted non-commercial access to the system to only a few known hyperspace corridors, and given Rokor’s predictability, Jag was willing to bet Rokor would opt for the less traveled route in an effort to avoid detection. Fortunately for Jag, that course would put Rokor and his ship, _Serpent’s Fang_ , well within the _Spartus’_ sensor range.

The _Spartus_ , a Corellian YV-664 freighter, boasted military grade shields and a modified hyperdrive, along with a pair of quad cannons. Equipped with the Corellian Engineering Company’s powerful standard sublight engines, Jag would have no difficulty handling whatever Rokor had to offer.

After a few hours, the sensors beeped an alert. Jag smiled as he read the readout on the incoming ship. He powered up his weapons and shields, then eased on the sublight engines and moved to intercept the _Fang_.

The _Spartus_ ’ targeting system acquired a firing solution but Jag refrained from blasting the unsuspecting ship into oblivion. Negotiation was certainly not beneath him, but given the Dug’s propensity to succumb to his emotions, Jag preferred to negotiate from a position of strength. With his dorsal quad cannon locked onto the other ship's engines, he opened a channel and hailed his opponent.

“ _Serpent’s Fang_ from _Spartus_ ,” he said sternly over the comm. “Reduce speed and stand down or you will be fired upon.”

The comm offered only silence as the _Fang_ continued on its original course, though sensors indicated it had slightly decreased speed.

“ _Serpent’s Fang_ , failure to respond _will_ result in your destruction.”

Again, silence was the only response. Jag was typically a patient man, but Rokor had the misfortune of stumbling upon Jag on an atypical day. Jag fired two quick shots from his dorsal cannons just wide of the ship, hoping its pilot would come to his senses.

The message seemed effective as the _Fang_ slowed considerably, almost coming to a complete stop. Jag ran an additional scan of the ship’s systems, making sure no surprises were waiting for him as he brought his ship across the _Fang_ ’s bow. Casting subtlety aside, he trained every one of the _Spartus’_ weapons on the ship’s cockpit.

“Quite the situation we have here,” said the raspy voice on the other end of the comm. “Quite the situation indeed.”

“On the contrary,” Jag replied coldly. “The situation is quite simple. Telnor will soon be mine, and you will be on your way.” He narrowed his eyes and glared at the ship in front of him. “Now.”

“Leaving?” Rokor scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

There was a light _click_ as the channel closed, and the _Fang_ opened fire.

***

_Blasted Dugs._

Jag threw all available power to the front shields and dove out of the _Fang’s_ line of fire. With the _Spartus’_ engines screaming at full speed, Jag turned his dorsal quad cannons loose on his attacker. A barrage of red pummeled the _Fang’s_ hull, which returned fire of its own. The _Spartus’_ shields absorbed most of Rokor’s attack but the _Fang_ was not so fortunate. A large crater scarred the port side of the ship, its exposed wiring sparking wildly. Still, Rokor refused to break off his attack.

Jag banked hard to starboard while swinging the cannons around. The _Fang_ , with its superior speed, matched the _Spartus’_ turn and closed the distance between the two ships. Jag tried to push out whatever additional speed his engines had left and banked back to the right before swinging upwards and twisting around above the _Fang_. Rokor tried to match the maneuver but was still bringing his ship around to bear as Jag dropped in behind him with weapons blazing. The quad cannons relentlessly pounded the _Fang’s_ aft shields, trying to blast through and disable the engines.

The _Fang_ attempted to break off and its engines flared as they desperately tried to deliver the ship to safety. The blinding flash of the sublight drive’s efflux forced Jag to hesitate for a moment as the cockpit’s viewport adjusted to the light. Those few precious seconds were all the _Fang_ needed to dart out of range, if only for a moment.

Jag reopened his channel with Rokor. “So much for not leaving.”

Rokor’s voice raspy voice sounded as though it was laced with anger. “This isn’t over, Girran.”

Jag chuckled. “You Dugs never do know when to quit, do you?”

He armed his proton torpedoes and locked onto the Dug’s ship while he brought the _Spartus_ up to full attack speed. The heavily damaged _Fang_ couldn’t muster the power needed to evade the oncoming assault.

“You should’ve listened, Rokor.”

Jag turned his quad cannons loose and fired a single torpedo at the heart of the _Fang_. Seconds later, the stern was consumed in a spectacular flash of fire that doubled in intensity as the fuel stores exploded and consumed Rokor and the rest of the ship.

***

Following the skirmish with Rokor, Jag took an hour to regroup and drop into Corellia’s orbit. In addition to a false transponder code for the ship, Jag masked any his concealed weapons systems with an anti-sensor configuration he had added several years prior. A failed attempt to slip through an Imperial blockade at Commenor had shown him the value of traveling discreetly.

Despite the bounty posting by CorSec, it was essential that Jag’s presence in the system remain unknown. Having already attracted the attention of the New Republic’s Intelligence’s Illicit Activities Division—the most recent efforts by Coruscant to please the public’s demands for a stranglehold on the galaxy’s growing number of criminal enterprises—Jag opted for discretion when conducting business in the Republic’s more affluent regions, despite the general incompetency of the IAD.

After receiving clearance to enter the planet’s atmosphere, Jag set the _Spartus_ on a course to Coronet, Corellia’s capital city. The night sky covered the city and miles beyond, which provided natural cover for Jag and his ship. The city’s urban and industrial sprawl illuminated the landscape, and speeders, civilian transports, and cargo lifts packed the airspace. It reminded Jag of Coruscant—just on a much smaller scale.

The _Spartus_ glided through the night sky and ducked in line with the rest of the surface-bound traffic. It had been some time since he last traveled to Coronet, and Jag marveled at the progress the city had made in rebuilding the capitol building. Not only had they created a much larger and grander structure, but the commerce in the area had also grown considerably. Although the area had always been quite affluent, the apparent boom created by the architectural improvements was noticeable even from Jag’s current altitude.

After circling the outer merchant districts, Jag located a docking bay tucked away between several large maintenance shops. While he checked his armor and weapons, ArDee read the intel reports he had compiled on Eres Telnor.

“Security files indicate ninety-seven murders in the Soran sector in the last three days,” said the voice of his digitized companion, “though only three matched your criteria.”

Jag nodded. “Thank you, ArDee. Decrypt any files you can obtain pertaining to security details in the area and upload them to my helmet.”

Although Jag had deserted his post within the Imperial Army years ago, he hadn’t left empty-handed. After his unit had been betrayed by its commander, he fled to the Outer Rim with his surviving comrades. They survived by turning to piracy, and it was during that time that Jag acquired AR-D1, or ArDee as Jag preferred.

“Three more dead and all in the same sector,” he said aloud. “Sounds like our boy’s still in the system.”

While the corporations that made their homes in the Soran Sector of Coronet were hardly galactic powerhouses, they had contributed significantly to the economic successes of Coronet’s outlying areas. Still, despite the growth of wealth in the area, crime rates were on the rise and the police presence had not matched it.

None of this surprised Jag; he had seen the same scene play out on dozens of other worlds. More money to go around meant more corruption, and in that system local crime syndicates flourished. Their newfound power and influence made them a threat to the regional CorSec precincts who remained ill-equipped to fix the problem. This also created a dangerous predicament for unwelcomed outsiders like Jag.

Then again, laws and social codes had never kept Jag from doing what he wanted, even if the outcome wasn’t always to his liking.

Grabbing his helmet from the copilot’s chair, Jag sealed the final piece of his armor in place and prepared to head out into the Coronet night.

“ArDee, get moving on those security reports. If you pull what you did on Skorrupon when I call for extraction, I’m wiping your memory and donating you to the first Jawa I find.”

“Very good, sir. The third decryption sequence is already underway,” ArDee responded, his clean Coruscanti accent absent of emotion.

“Good. Monitor our channel, and alert me immediately if I start to move out of range.”

ArDee acknowledged his request, and after stashing his twin blaster pistols into their holsters, Jag slipped through the hatch of the _Spartus_ and sealed the ship behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the spike in murders in the last week, CorSec’s presence was relatively negligible, making the trek from the docking bay to the city’s higher levels an uneventful one. Jag found that curious, but given the pockets of what were clearly syndicate enforcers he passed along the way, it was hardly surprising. It certainly explained why they had opted to place a bounty on Eres.

Eventually Jag came across a speeder station with vehicles available for rent. As he stepped into the hangar’s office, the Devaronian behind the counter looked as though he was about to faint.

“I swear, I’ll pay!” the horned individual said, visibly shaking as he began to slink away.  “Tell him I’ve got the money, I just…I can’t get off-planet!”

Jag cocked his head in confusion.

“Relax, friend. I’m not here for you.” Jag raised his hands to indicate he meant no harm. “And I’m not who you think I am.”

The shop owner hesitated, and then offered a broad smile as the color mostly returned to the Devaronian’s face. “In that case, Ert’an H’lark, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“I’m in need of some…discreet transportation,” Jag said.

H’lark nodded at Jag’s armor. “With that outfit, I’d imagine so.”

“I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve seen this kind of armor,” Jag said, knowing full well where the conversation was headed.

“Unfortunately, it’s not. _He_ came for me several years ago when I had a shop outside of Hutt Space,” H’lark said, eyes cast downward, though his face quickly brightened. “Lucky for me, I was wealthier than his employer.”

Jag smiled and nodded. Fett, notorious for his cold-blooded approach to his profession, was equally renowned for his attention to the bottom line. Still, it wasn’t often Fett risked client dissatisfaction for a few extra credits. Either the bounty was less than impressive, or this Ert’an H’lark was far more prosperous than his modest shop suggested.

“I’m also a man who knows a few things.”

 _Ah._ Jag grinned again. So that was Fett’s _true_ reason for keeping H’lark alive. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

H’lark smiled nervously and nodded. “Let’s take a look at the lot, shall we?” The Devaronian started to walk out from behind the counter, eager to get to the sale. Jag stopped him.

“That won’t be necessary.” He pulled a credit chip from a pouch on his belt and handed it to H’lark. “That’s four thousand. Give me something small, fast, and quiet.” H’lark picked up the money and studied Jag for a moment.

“Well,” he began, the satisfaction in his voice obvious. “I think we can arrange something. I think our newest model will suit you quite nicely. The ZRX-36. Very popular among the more—” H’lark paused and gave Jag a quick glance, “—adventurous types, if you will. We have several in the hangar at the moment. What name should we put on the account?”

Jag tossed another credit chip on the counter. “What name?”

H’lark sighed. “I’m sorry sir, but that’s not going to possible. You must—”

In a flash, the bounty hunter had a pistol in hand and aimed at the Devaronian’s forehead. The color again left H’lark’s face.

“I’ve always considered myself a patient man.” Jag noticed beads of sweat had started rolling down the side of H’lark’s face. “But people keeping saying I have far too high an opinion of myself.”

H’lark stammered as he tried to speak. “You know, the name part is really more of a formality than anything. Nothing some creative administrative work can’t clean up.”

Jag holstered his pistol and nodded. “That’s more like it.”

The Devaronian smiled weakly and grunted in agreement as Jag headed out to the hangar.

***

A few hours passed and the night sky started to give way to dawn while Jag scouted the area and got to work. Once he found a suitable starting point, he piloted the speeder toward one of the financial towers and started looking for a discreet spot to begin his climb. After analyzing CorSec’s recent patrols in the area, ArDee provided Jag with a route that should keep him out of sight of anyone on the ground or airborne

The few traces of sunlight that penetrated area’s metal mountains gleamed off Jag’s crimson and charcoal armor as he climbed an access ladder to the top of the banking complex. The sun crept higher into the morning as Jag continued his climb, and after ascending another ladder and scaling another wall to reach yet another ladder, he stopped to remove his helmet and wipe the sweat from his brow while he admired the view.  Jag cursed his malfunctioning jetpack that had been reduced to an armor ornament. He likely would not have used it anyway so as to avoid detection, but that did not keep him from complaining about it.

The banking complex was the largest structure in the area, and it was also the most accessible. Since a variety of banks, both Corellian and intergalactic, made their headquarters inside, a wide array of species could come and go as they pleased. A Chev would have little difficulty—if any—infiltrating the complex. Jag inspected the rooftop and compared it with the schematics ArDee had provided him. The rooftop was scattered with exhaust vents and only a few appeared active

 _I deserve double for this_. Jag groaned and again removed his helmet to wipe his face. The suit’s self-cooling system he had tried to repair over the last week was currently in the middle of a horribly failed field test. In addition to the heat, the exhaust vents’ cover grates had been laser-welded into place.

“It’s always something. _Always_.” He pulled a smaller lasertorch from another pouch on his utility belt. “Why would things go according to plan? Where’s the fun in that?” He made his way around the edge of the grate, cutting the vent’s entrance as he went. “Nope, I’d rather stand on the roof and boil to death.”

With just a few more cuts to make, the grate partially broke loose on its own and started to fall into the ventilation shaft, and the weight of the metal nearly pulled Jag down with it. He grabbed on to the lip of the vent to brace himself and started cursing at himself.

“Atta boy.” He grimaced and fought to keep from dropping the grate. To make matters worse, Jag had dropped his torch down the shaft and he heard it clang around as it made its way to the bottom.

“Come on, you worthless piece of sithspit.”

He grunted as he dug his heels into the roof and hoisted the heavy metal grate back up over the lip of the vent. Once he had his balance, he made a quick grab for the grate with his free hand and pulled back as hard as he could, trying to bend the metal and snap it. The near collapse into the shaft must have weakened the metal significantly, because after working the metal back and forth for a few moments, he was able to break the grate free.

Jag removed a small metal looped pin from his utility belt and hammered it into the roof’s surface. He pressed a button on the wrist-mounted mechanism of his gauntlet and pulled out several feet of fibercord that he then snaked through the pin’s loop and clamped in place.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the fibercord tight and he climbed into the vent. He braced his feet against the sides of the shaft while holding onto the lip, hoping the pin would hold in place and not send him free-falling to the bottom of the shaft.

He began his descent slowly, carefully and quietly walking himself down the shaft. The fibercord seemed to have no problem supporting his weight despite him wearing his full suit of armor. His visor adjusted to the increasingly dim surroundings, and after lowering himself a few more meters, his feet touched bottom and he released the fibercord from his wrist. While crouched in the shaft, Jag blinked a set of commands at his HUD and opened his link to the _Spartus_.

“ArDee, upload the readout of this building to my datapad.”

“Copy, sir. You should receive it momentarily.”

While he waited for the plans to arrive, Jag peered around the shaft. It was large enough that he could almost comfortably stand upright. He removed a small datapad from a pocket on his thigh belt and opened up the encrypted package from ArDee. A three-dimensional layout of the banking complex came to life on the face of the pad and identified Jag’s location. He keyed in a few commands and focused the display on his section of the building.

According to the plans, he was directly above some sort of meeting hall or conference room; behind him was the cafeteria along with several large generators which were likely responsible for the smoke and vapor rising through the rooftop vents. Jag headed forward through the vent towards what appeared to be a block of offices. He rotated the building diagram to get a better look; there was large, open room sandwiched between clusters of smaller offices with two long corridors running to each section.

The vent continued for approximately thirty meters before coming to another turn. Jag crept along as quietly as he could, grimacing at every creak and groan of metal. The temperature outside the building had been quite uncomfortable; it was unbearable in the vent. Drops of sweat were rolling down his neck and dripping off his brow. He stopped and crouched down to remove his helmet and wipe his face again.

“Four hundred thousand credits. Four hundred thousand credits.”

Jag slipped his helmet back on and continued down the dimly lit vent. There were slivers of light creeping through gaps in the pieces of metal, but not enough for him to see clearly without the aid of his helmet.

As Jag approached the first cluster of offices, grates start to appear on the floor of the vent, which acted as ceiling vents for the rooms below. Lights were on in the majority of the offices so he slowed his approach even more and stepped as lightly as he could. Based on the glances he made into the rooms below, the area was largely unoccupied. He was approaching a grate whose light was dimmer than the others, then stopped when he heard voices. Jag crouched next to the slats and peered into the room below.

The room was much larger than the previous cluster of offices and appeared to be an executive suite of sorts. A well-dressed humanoid was seated behind a large desk, and seated on the corner of that desk was an attractive human female. It was clear the topic of conversation between the two had nothing to do with banking. Jag shook his head and moved on.

Below the next grate, however, was something worthy of his attention. A Chev with elaborate facial tattoos dressed in janitorial garments had just removed a rather large vibroblade from his pocket. In the other hand was a blaster. Jag’s eyes widened; the Chev was preparing to break through the door in front of him, which connected to the previous room. The Chev had pried open the control panel for the door and was attempting to override the wiring. Jag shuffled back to the grate over the executive suite—the suite with a very rich executive seated helplessly behind a desk.

Telnor was about to strike again.

“Wonderful.” When Jag looked down into the executive suite, he saw the door was still intact, but also found the executive and the attractive female had started undressing each other.

“Oh, come on—”

The door flew open and the room’s two occupants’ heads swung around toward the noise. Eres Telnor burst through, his blaster trained on the executive and the vibroblade menacingly extended out in front of his body. Jag groaned in annoyance as he stood up and stepped gently onto the grate. In one quick motion he hopped up and slammed his feet through the grate.

He shot through the opening and into the room. As he fell, he managed to grab a shoulder of the executive and his female companion, and dragged them both to the floor. Telnor opened fire, trying desperately to land a hit on one of his targets. Jag snatched a blaster from his hip and rolled around the left side of the desk. He popped into a crouch, aimed at Telnor’s legs, and fired off several quick shots.

The Chev was already on the move. The shots went wide as Telnor bolted for the suite’s massive transparisteel window and fired two quick shots to clear his path. The window shattered just as Telnor launched himself through the opening, out of the building, and into the open skies.

For a heartbeat, Jag stared at the shattered window dumbfounded.

“The hell is he doing?”

Jag started after Telnor, but he hesitated when he remembered the executive and the female. He reached into his belt and removed a small holdout blaster he decided he could do without and tossed it at the man’s feet.

“Next time, bring some protection.”

He turned, broke into a full sprint, and leaped out the window.

***

As Jag plummeted in free-fall towards the street below, his arms and legs spread out to provide some air resistance, he started to wonder what Telnor had been thinking. No one jumped out of a several hundred story skyscraper without some kind of plan.

Maybe he had planned some sort of getaway and jumped into a parked speeder. Maybe he had prepared the night before and had a rope waiting for him. Maybe he was splattered across the streets below.

Those thoughts lasted about two seconds before Jag refocused on the fact he was freefalling toward the streets of Coronet. He hit the ignition for his jetpack once, then twice, and then a third time.

Nothing.

“Oh boy.”

He kept toggling the activator, at first to no avail, but finally the jetpack sputtered to life and his body jerked as the jetpack halted his fall.

Then the jetpack quit. Jag was freefalling again.

“I swear if I survive this, I’m retiring.” Diagnostics kept playing across his helmet’s display, but panic was beginning to take hold and he couldn’t focus on the information.

The ground continued to approach rapidly, and Jag knew his window of opportunity to figure something out was nearly gone. The building he had jumped from had a series of vertical pipes running parallel with it that eventually curved and connected into the building, likely carrying water from wells dug below the city. Some smaller horizontal pipes connected the vertical pipes to the building at various points along the way. He eyed one of the horizontal pipes below him and worked to rotate his body in the air.

Only a few hundred meters separated Jag from the ground. There would be no time for a second attempt. He tried to cant his body and move closer to the building in order to minimize the distance of his shot. He reached out with his left arm and took aim at the horizontal pipe. Jag gave the ground one last look—now less than a hundred meters away—and fired his fibercord grappler at the piping.

He almost waited too long.

The grappler barely reached the pipes. It swung itself around the horizontal pipe and secured a tight hold on the durasteel. Jag kept his finger on the mechanism’s release, trying to use every last bit of fibercord he had left. As the ground continued to draw closer, he started to worry that he had given himself too much slack. He would slam into the ground within a second or two. Jag closed his eyes, felt some of the wind whipping under his helmet against his face, and prepared for the inevitable.


	3. Chapter 3

Jag’s eyes snapped open and his body jolted as the fibercord went taut. At first, he had had no reaction, partly due to the shock of not being dead. The sudden force of Jag’s body snapped the fibercord from his wrist and he flailed with his right hand, trying to grab hold. He caught the cord for a moment, but then started to slide down it. He swung his left hand up to grab it, trying to stop his fall. His gloved hand tightened with as much strength as he could muster, and he finally came to a stop—but only because his feet were on the ground.

Still clutching the fibercord with every last ounce of desperation in his body, Jag looked around, still in disbelief that he was alive. His sudden arrival on the lower street level had startled the twenty or thirty people in the area, but none of them gave him more than a questioning look before returning to their business.

Jag stretched his fingers a few times, trying to relax his hands and forearms. He looked around to get his bearings and regain his composure, checked his weapons, and made sure everything was still in its place. With every last bit of fibercord from his suit hanging above him, he had lost a valuable part of his arsenal. Hopefully Telnor didn’t plan on diving out any more windows.

He headed down the street and ducked into a dimly lit alley, littered with old crates and dotted with receded doorways. His visor again adjusted to compensate for the diminished visibility, which made the darkened alley appear partially illuminated through his helmet’s display. Jag scanned the corridor for his quarry. He noticed the alleyway came to a dead end approximately a hundred meters to his right, with the foundations of skyscrapers blocking any exit in that direction.

_Nowhere to hide._

He had barely finished the thought when blaster bolts sizzled past his head. He hit the ground and rolled into a nearby receded doorway. Jag blinked a command at his heads-up display and his visor shifted to infrared scanning.

He saw the Chev before the Chev saw him.

Jag drew both blaster pistols and popped out of the doorway. He aimed at Telnor’s exposed leg and fired four quick shots. He heard a howl of pain as he crouched behind a couple of crates on the other side of the alley. Jag checked over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t an ambush on the way, then confirmed Telnor was still down and emerged from cover.

Jag bolted out from behind the crate and fired two more shots at Telnor’s position. Both went wide but kept Telnor suppressed, who was still screaming curses at the bounty hunter. When Jag was only a few strides from Telnor, he holstered one of his blasters and leaped onto the crates Telnor was using for cover. With another bounding step, he planted and launched himself over the head of the unsuspecting Chev.

His target had his gun aimed at where Jag would have been had he tried to come around the crates. However, his aerial assault caught Telnor by complete surprise. Jag flipped the blaster in his grip and smashed its butt into the Chev’s face with as much power as he could generate, then whipped the pistol around and fired a shot into the hand holding Telnor’s blaster which drew another yelp of pain.

Now standing over his prey, Jag kicked Telnor’s blaster away and drew his other pistol, aiming both at Telnor’s head. His bounty laid helplessly on the ground, cowering with one hand protecting his face, the other holding his wounded leg.

“Eres Telnor. You’re quite popular these days.”

Telnor, still reeling from Jag’s swift attack, could only stutter.

“Who in the blazes are you?”

“The Chief of State as far as you’re concerned. And you shouldn’t be worried about who I am. What you _should_ be worried about is whether or not I need the fifteen percent I’d be docked if I bring you in cold.”

Telnor answered with a confused look. Jag chuckled as he crouched down in front of Telnor.

“Not too privy to how CorSec’s been handling their bounties, are we?”

Telnor shook his head.

“Well, my marginally crippled friend, as per their new policy, anyone cashing in on a bounty with a corpse takes a fifteen percent hit on the price.” Jag cocked his head slightly. “That leaves us with two options.”

With one hand resting on his bent knee, he raised the other to aim the blaster at Telnor’s chest.

“Number one: I shoot you.” Jag glanced at the Chev’s laser-burned leg. “Well, fatally. Number two.” He paused again. “I don’t really like number two.”

Jag had to smile. It was like he was still talking to H’lark in the speeder shop. The color in Telnor’s face had faded and his breathing was heavy.

“What…is option…two?” he managed between breaths.

Jag stood and crossed his arms, still holding his blasters. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Option two is far less fun for me.”

“I’ll take option two!” Telnor blurted, almost before Jag could finish. Jag shrugged and holstered one of the blasters.

“As you wish.” Jag delivered a vicious backhand to Telnor’s head with the butt of the other blaster, spun the pistol on his palm, and smashed him again with the gun. Telnor went limp and slumped over. Jag sighed again and cursed the fact that he would have to carry—no, drag—Telnor back to his speeder.

“ArDee, you copy?”

“Loud and clear, sir. I was beginning to worry you had expired.”

Jag smiled. While emotions were by their very nature foreign to droids and machinery, his computerized counterpart had developed some self-designed programming that incorporated certain aspects of human emotion. As long as those new-found characteristics didn’t begin to wear on Jag, he welcomed them. It was comforting to enjoy _something_ resembling human interaction during his travels.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He bound Telnor’s hands behind his back, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and started to drag him down the alley toward the street he had landed in after his leap from the banking complex.

“I’m going to need you to find me a path back to the speeder. Did you ping its location yet?”

“Yes, sir. It remains where you left it, though I imagine you will find it difficult to return to, considering your cargo.”

“I agree. Any chance you can access the control board of the speeder remotely?”

ArDee stated there would be no issue in doing so, and provided him with a rendezvous point. Jag pulled out the datapad he had used in the vent and loaded a map of the Soran Sector of Coronet, then felt his jaw drop when he saw where ArDee wanted him to meet the speeder.

“What, are you nuts? You want me to stroll out in the middle of a public square dragging a guy with blaster wounds? Dressed like _this_?”

There was a moment of silence before ArDee responded.

“I concur, sir; my apologies. I am forwarding new coordinates to your display. This should meet our needs.”

Jag scoffed. Our _needs. Says the one_ not _getting shot at_.

With his destination now marked on his helmet’s HUD, he started dragging Telnor down the street. The fortunate part of being on Coronet’s main street level was that hardly anyone he passed paid him any mind, despite the unconscious body in tow. He had to push through a few groups of tightly packed pedestrians, but for the most part, he arrived at his destination without incident.

The rendezvous point was a plaza enclosed by several one hundred-story buildings. Three walkways intersected, two of which cut through the buildings and connected to the open expanses and concourses on the other side of the enormous structures. The other walkway also led pedestrians into the largest of the skyscrapers, but to an underground shopping complex.

The area was well-lit with several vendors packed near the walking paths. The majority of the commerce in this particular enclosure seemed to revolve around vice. In an area no larger than ninety meters in either direction, there were at least five bars and brothel, along with upwards of ten dining locations offering various types of cuisine from across the galaxy. That there was so much variety in this particular part of Coronet surprised Jag.

He scanned the nearby docking platforms for his speeder.

“ArDee, where’s my transport?”

“Arriving momentarily, sir. Stand by.”

Jag turned his eyes skyward just in time to see the sleek speeder glide into view and begin its descent.

“Don’t bother docking, just drop it in the middle of the courtyard,” he instructed the computer. “This needs to be quick.”

ArDee chirped an affirmative as Jag quickened his pace toward an open seating area between two of the walkways. A large, elegant fountain sat in the middle of the arrangement, surrounded by colorful and polished stones, which seemed rather out of place in such a neighborhood. The large crowd taking holographs of the fountain was apparently too distracted to notice the airspeeder that was beginning its descent into the middle of the square. Jag needed to get airborne and off-planet with Telnor as quickly as possible, and, as he tended to do, ArDee was using caution when Jag needed expediency.

“ArDee, enough. Just put the damn thing down.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The speeder dropped and crushed the fountain with some members of the crowd standing mere meters away. Jag could only stare in disbelief.

“I’m going to deactivate you.”

“My apologies, sir.”

Jag was sure he caught a hint of sarcasm in the computer’s voice.

The crowd near the fountain broke out in panic while many of the other pedestrians in the area had activated their comlinks and were all frantically talking—or yelling—into them. Jag would have to work quickly, both in escaping the area and the planet. He hoisted Telnor’s body into the speeder and climbed in. With the repulsorlifts already running, he started to lift the speeder off the pile of rubble that had been the beautiful fountain only moments ago.

As he started to swing the front end of the speeder around and upwards, the square’s open sky between the skyscrapers filled with speeders loaded with security personnel.

Jag clenched his teeth and cursed. “Four hundred thousand. Four hundred thousand.”

He had only one way out, but there was no guarantee he could minimize property damage. With no other options, he decided the city was prosperous enough to afford repairs, and given the circumstances he felt avoiding collisions with civilians was a much higher priority.

Jag threw down the accelerator and steered the speeder toward one of the walkways that tunneled through the first level of a skyscraper and led to the open sky concourses. Fortunately, most of the pedestrians had deduced what was about to transpire. The several hundred people in the area scattered toward the edges of the walkway while others dove to their stomachs and covered their heads. Jag took a deep breath and headed for the tunnel.

The ceiling of the tunnel was lower than he anticipated. In fact, it was so low that Jag almost took his own head off as he plunged the speeder into the passageway. Pedestrians of all colors and species continued to dive out of the way, but for the most part his path was clear. He pushed more power to the drives as he tried to clear the tunnel at top speed. The howl of repulsorlifts echoed down the chamber as two security speeders dropped in behind him.

The pursuing airspeeders closed the distance quickly and were nearly on top of Jag just as he cleared the tunnel. The sky opened up into the bustling flow of late morning Coronet traffic. Refusing to sacrifice an ounce of speed, Jag darted into the thick flow of civilian air traffic, weaving in and out of the skylanes in an attempt to put some distance between himself and his newfound friends.

“ArDee, I’m in trouble! Keep the ship hot, we’re not going to have much time!”

How he was going to make the transfer to the _Spartus_ was beyond him at this point. He was hoping a solution would manifest itself by the time he arrived at the docking bay.

One of the pursuing speeders had crept up along Jag’s starboard side and its operator had drawn his blaster. Jag banked hard to the left and dropped out of the skylane, then began cutting toward an artificial canyon between two massive spacescrapers. The security speeder dove and cut below the skylane in pursuit, with the second CorSec speeder dropping in on its left flank.

Both of the speeders sported a single laser cannon mounted on the bow, but they had yet to open fire, likely fearing collateral damage. Attempting to use this to his advantage, Jag rocketed into the urban canyon and tried to hug the building to his left as much as possible without sacrificing control of the speeder. The only drawback to entering the chasm—something that hadn’t occurred to Jag previously—was the decreased sky traffic.

The CorSec pilots quickly recognized their new advantage and opened fire. The shots missed wide, burning large holes in the durasteel and transparisteel exterior of one of the spacescrapers. Jag grabbed one of his blaster pistols and prepared to make his move. As he burst out of the canyon, he threw his speeder into a dive that almost launched him and Telnor forward out of the speeder, but Jag was able to grab the unconscious Chev by the arm and drag him back to safety.

Though the speeders were a little slow reacting, once they adjusted they matched Jag’s maneuver almost flawlessly, but failed to anticipate the next one. He slammed the speeder into a full stop and drew his other blaster. As both speeders shot past him, he opened fire.

The first several shots clipped the back of the speeders and each one jolted from the impact. Jag continued to fire, even though the speeders were all but out of range at that point. Still, he had distanced himself just enough. He dropped back into his seat and started to climb back to the primary skylanes.

Jag glanced at Telnor, who was now awake and staring at him with wide open eyes and a look that managed to express panic, fear, and anger all at once. Jag smiled behind his helmet and laughed lightly.

“What’s the matter, don’t like flying?”

Telnor responded in his native tongue, one Jag was hardly familiar with, but judging by the tone and volume, he assumed his own translation couldn’t have been too inaccurate.

“Oh, relax. You won’t have to put up with me for much longer.” Jag paused for a moment before turning to look at Telnor. “After all, you get to meet those guys.” He jerked his thumb back towards their former pursuers. Again, Telnor lashed out with an indiscernible tirade.

Instead of risking another encounter with the local security forces, Jag opted for a longer, less direct route back to the _Spartus’_ docking bay. After securing Telnor in one of the holding cells on his ship, Jag returned the speeder to H’lark’s shop along with an extra thousand credits, just in case the Devaronian needed some more incentive to forget their business dealings. Soon he was back onboard the _Spartus_ and preparing to take off.

“Initiation sequence complete, ArDee?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Jag nodded in approval as he dropped into the pilot’s seat and double-checked the flight monitors in front of him.

“Raise shields and reroute whatever additional power you have to the sublight engines. I’d love to take the scenic route out, but honestly, I need a drink.”

“Copy, sir. Shall I begin preparing your drink?” ArDee asked.

“In the name of all that is sacred, absolutely not. After all _this_ , you think I’m going to suffer another one of your toxic concoctions?”

There was no answer from ArDee, which suited Jag just fine; he needed to focus on getting out of Coronet. He reached up to his right and flipped a few switches behind him, then checked his system monitors one more time. Everything appeared to be functioning properly save for his weapons systems, which were warming slower than usual due to the power reroutes. He would have to manage without them.

“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.”

The _Spartus_ ’ powerful engines roared to life as he lifted the ship off the floor of the docking bay, and a few moments later the modified freighter was streaking towards Corellia's upper atmosphere. Jag checked the scopes until he broke free into open space, making sure there was no second pursuit.

As he made his way beyond Corellia’s gravitational well, he loaded up the navicomputer and entered the coordinates for the jump to lightspeed. It was ironic, he thought, that he had spent so much energy evading CorSec’s soldiers just to turn over a murderer to one of their higher-ranking officers. While it wasn’t necessarily corrupt, hiring an outlaw to do one’s dirty work was certainly not the most ethical way to put a stop to crime. Still, it could not have mattered any less to Jag.

The hunt was over, and it was time to get paid.


	4. Chapter 4

Once the _Spartus_ was safely hurtling through hyperspace on autopilot, Jag headed for the hold and took a seat on a crate near Telnor’s holding cell. He had spent the last hour refilling the fibercord in his suit. The torso plates of his armor were on the floor resting against his crate while the left wrist gauntlet sat in his lap as he tried to force several grapplers into the holding slots inside the piece.

Telnor was slowly regaining consciousness, as he had been unresponsive since shortly after leaving Corellia. Jag had removed the stuncuffs but kept Telnor’s feet secured; the Chev wouldn’t be escaping the electrified cell anytime soon. It only took a few minutes after Telnor woke up for the incessant griping began.

“You don’t have to turn me in, you know.” Telnor’s Basic was broken but still comprehendible.

“You don’t say.”

“I mean it. I can pay double. Hell, probably triple!”

“Doubtful.”

“I had my reasons for what I did, reasons you might even approve of.”

Jag looked up from his task with the fibercord. “Such as?”

“I’ve heard about you. I know how you are—how you’ve got ‘principles’ or whatever you want to call them. Every single person I killed, they had it coming to them.”

“Did they, now?”

Telnor nodded. “That’s right. _Every_ one of them. They stole, they embezzled, they robbed from hard-working people.”

Jag shrugged. “They’re not my concern. They didn’t have a bounty on their heads.”

“But I thought—”

“What you thought is not of any consequence to me, and my principles are of no consequence to you. What does matter is that when I have an opportunity to bring a murderer to justice— _and_ get paid for it—I don’t hesitate. But I’m not a financial regulatory commission. If those people you killed are as corrupt as you claim, then let the Corellians handle it. It’s not my business.”

Jag turned and stared at Telnor as coldly as his helmet would allow. “ _You_ are my business.”

The Chev either came to terms with his fate or ran out of ideas with which to persuade his captor. Whichever it was, Jag didn’t care; he was glad that things were finally quiet again. He finished replacing the grapplers and ran the fibercord through the protective sheath that connected to the back plate, where it ran to a feed machine built into the underside of the armor.

Jag strapped all of his armor on and ran a quick check on the suit’s various systems. The fibercord’s mechanism registered as fully functioning, as did the network of sensors imbedded in the armor that alerted him to any structural damage. He pulled his gloves on and holstered his blasters. Jag paused and turned to look at Telnor, who had been quietly studying him since the conclusion of their conversation.

Telnor nodded toward the armor. “Where did you get that?”

“None of your business.”

Telnor flashed a smile, revealing uneven but sharp teeth. “I bet you stole it.”

Jag laughed. “You’re certainly free to think what you want.”

“I bet _he_ doesn’t like you wearing it.”

This made Jag pause. He walked toward the cell and crouched down in front of Telnor.

“You want to know where I got it?”

Telnor nodded, a smug look on his face. Jag couldn’t tell if the Chev was trying to elicit some visceral emotional response or simply irritate him, but it was working: Jag was annoyed.

“You see this? This marking?” He held up his left wrist gauntlet for Telnor to see.

“No—what am I looking for?”

“It’s hard to miss. Just look closer.”

Telnor inched his face closer to the bars of the holding cell, squinting his eyes as he tried to locate the markings. He moved his face closer and closer as he continued to fail to find anything significant.

That was when Jag lashed out with a quick right jab and planted a solid fist against Telnor’s jaw. There was an audible _crack_ as the bone broke, and Telnor yelped in pain.

“Still want to know?”

***

The mottled blue blur of hyperspace disappeared into the realm of normal space and gave way to the rich pink color of the Hannas Nebula as the _Spartus_ dropped out of lightspeed. The encrypted transmission Jag received from CorSec after confirming his successful apprehension of Telnor had identified this remote section of space as the transfer point. The nebula’s relatively close proximity to Corellia made it ideal for arrangements of the less than legal variety, and was far enough from the system that the prying eyes of Internal Affairs and Corellian bureaucrats would remain ignorant to CorSec engaging in under-the-table deals with bounty hunters.

Jag brought his sensors online and began sweeping the area, though his instruments were partially disrupted by the nebula’s irregularities and electromagnetic discharges. He scanned the magnificently colored space, a cosmic collection of gases and dust. Two stars were in the early stages of formation, and Jag set the ship’s computers to monitor the edges of each core’s gravitational well. The last thing he wanted was to conclude this whole ordeal with incineration.

“ArDee, begin transmitting. See if we can’t find him.” Jag pulled his helmet on and headed back to the hold where Telnor lay sleeping.

Ideally, the transfer would be an unremarkable affair: collect payment, transfer the package, and leave. From there, his exit would include a series of jumps across the Inner Rim followed by a long shot to the Outer Rim, and then he would disappear to the edge of the galaxy.

Unfortunately, his history of dealing with Corellians had taught him that hardly anything ever went according to plan. They were a people steeped in pride, brashness, and arrogance, and rarely hesitated to capitalize on an opportunity that presented itself. Jag expected precisely that from Captain Blaise.

He headed to the cargo elevator to prep the area for the transfer. Jag stashed a few blasters and backup power packs nearby as a precaution then returned to the cockpit. By that time, a ship was visible in the distance against the backdrop of the nebula.

“ArDee, check the transponder on that ship.”         

“I already did, sir. Showing as the _Ion_ , CorSec markings. Scans indicate weapons are active.”

Jag exited the cockpit once again and returned to the hold.

“Open a channel as soon as we’re in range,” he said. “And raise the shields.”

ArDee acknowledged the order and went silent as the computer made the necessary preparations for the communiqué. Jag turned his attention to the prisoner still lying in a heap on the deck of the hold.

“Wake up.”

When Telnor didn’t stir, Jag sighed and repeated his command, but again received no response. His patience wearing thin, he grabbed the DC-15 rifle he had racked on the wall and shut down the cell. Entering cautiously, he jabbed Telnor in the side with the long barrel of the rifle.

The prisoner snapped into action: he grabbed the barrel and yanked it towards him, catching Jag off guard. Telnor kicked his leg forward and swept Jag’s legs out from under him. Jag hit the deck with a loud thud and his grip on the rifle loosened.

Telnor seized his opportunity and snatched the rifle from Jag. He swung it around and brought the barrel to bear on Jag’s chest, but the bounty hunter was too quick. His right blaster was already in his hand and he fired quick shots into Telnor’s left hand, arm, and then shoulder.

The Chev screamed in pain but still managed to fire a shot into Jag’s chest. He grunted as the force of the shot slammed him back to the deck. Still, there was no burning sensation that accompanied a blaster wound. He felt his chest plate with his free hand, trying to assess the damage. His HUD confirmed what he felt; no penetration, but significant damage.

Jag lifted his blaster again as he sat up and took aim Telnor’s right arm. He fired another succession of shots and drew another howl from Telnor. The Chev finally dropped the rifle and Jag jumped on him. He bashed Telnor’s face with the butt of his blaster and then crushed his nose with a sharp left jab. The bloodied prisoner finally went limp. Jag tossed the motionless but still breathing body against the cell wall and picked up his rifle.

“Stupid bastard,” he muttered angrily.

Few things irritated him more than those who did not know when to accept reality and face it with dignity. The bloodied, broken, and burned being that sat before him was guilty of crimes punishable by death on any number of planets throughout the galaxy, yet he had tried to justify his actions to a man who made his living hunting for money.

Relative morality mattered little to a man like Jag. He certainly had his principles, but allowing his victims to rationalize their crimes wasn’t something he indulged. Even if those rationales were defensible, Jag wasn’t paid to be a judge. He was paid to fulfill contracts, nothing more. If he had wanted to be an arbitrator, he would have gone to work in the public sector after the Empire fell.

Eres Telnor was guilty of multiple murders by his own admission. While his motives were mildly admirable, especially in the eyes of a revolutionary or activist, Jag made it a point to avoid such entanglements. He preferred things simple; it removed the need for subjectivity—something for which his profession had little use.

ArDee soon informed him the nearby ship had acknowledged Jag’s transmissions and was standing by. He started back to the cockpit and stopped in the hold on his way to check on Telnor, who was just as Jag had left him. Once he reached the cockpit, Jag flipped on the comm and took a seat in the pilot’s chair.

“Captain Blaise,” he said evenly into the mic.

“Jag Girran. It’s been a long time.” Jag could almost hear Blaise sneer on the other end. “A _very_ long time.”

Jag forced a sighed, trying to rid himself of the anger that had already started to mount. “My apologies, Captain. I didn’t realize you missed me. Next time I’ll send a holopic to help you cope.”

Instead of a smart remark, the captain responded by targeting the _Spartus_ with his ship’s weapons.

“Raise shields.” After all Jag had endured over the last twenty-four hours, he was not about to be denied his payment. “Should’ve seen this coming. Knew that price was too good to be true.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Blaise countered. “You will be fully compensated for your efforts. Your payment is being prepared for transfer as we speak.”

Jag glanced at the most recent sensor readout. “Care to explain why you’re paying such close attention to my hyperdrive?”

There was no answer from the _Ion_ at first, but then ArDee reported the change in the ship’s weapon systems before it registered on Jag’s monitors.

“The _Ion_ has deactivated its weapons, sir.”

Jag nodded. “Good. Keep running your sweeps, I’m taking us in.” He activated the comm again. “You _will_ be paying me, Blaise. After the day I’ve had, I’m not leaving empty handed.”

“Relax, Girran.” Blaise sounded more amused than threatened by Jag’s tone. “Your money is on the way. You’ll receive it soon enough.”

Jag brought the sublight engines up to a reasonable speed as he closed the gap between the _Ion_ and _Spartus_ , keeping an eye on his monitors during the approach. Moments later he was only about a hundred meters from the vessel, and could see the _Ion’s_ laser scars suffered during numerous hostile encounters. Jag turned the ship’s controls over to ArDee as he headed back to the hold.

Telnor was still in the same crumpled position, the blood on his face mostly dry, though the large gash above his eye that Jag had inflicted still oozed a dark blue. Jag entered the cell—there was no sudden attack from the prisoner this time—and grabbed Telnor by the collar. He pulled an assault rifle from the wall, clamped it to the back plate of his armor, and headed aft.

Once the _Spartus_ was secured in the _Ion’s_ hangar, Jag lowered his ship’s cargo elevator to flight deck. Even in the hangar of the _Victory_ -class Star Destroyer, the brilliant colors of the nebula reflected beautifully off the otherwise sterile walls of the chamber. Jag shoved Telnor forward and drew his blaster with the barrel pointed down, lest he provoke any sort of hostility from the two security officers waiting a few meters away.

The officers were wearing uniforms similar to those of the men who had pursued him only hours earlier in Coronet. The color scheme differed slightly, as did the cut of the uniform. Although Jag hadn’t exactly studied his pursuers in detail, the dissimilarities were certainly evident. These uniforms had a more militaristic appearance, and the beings wearing them were of considerably more impressive stature than any of the officers from Coronet.

“Holster your weapon,” said the larger of the two, a broad-shouldered Falleen.

Unlike most of the Falleen Jag encountered during his various travels, this one sported a completely bald scalp with no trace of the long, black pony tail that was typical of the species. The human also had a shaved head, and the tip of an exotic but strangely familiar tattoo was barely visible just above the collar of his uniform. Jag had always taken great pride in his conditioning and considered himself one of the stronger humans he knew. Still, he was clearly outmatched against these two officers. If the transfer went less than satisfactorily, escaping the _Spartus_ in one piece may prove difficult.

Jag followed the two guards to the hangar’s turbolift, keeping Telnor between himself and his escort. During the trip to the bridge, Jag snuck glances at the guards’ holsters. His HUD identified and detailed the sidearm each being carried. Each was set to “stun,” which worked in Jag’s favor, as he would have at least some chance of surviving a potential altercation.

The turbolift eventually eased to a stop and opened to reveal a moderately sized bridge. A few of the officers turned to look at the newcomers but for the most part, Jag’s arrival was ignored. The bridge was typical in design, though the walls were painted off-white rather than the utilitarian gray the Empire had used. A dark orange stripe ran the length of the walls and floors, and the lighting on the bridge gleamed off an amazingly polished deck.

The sound of the captain’s boots echoed sharply as he strode purposefully toward Jag and the two guards. The boots struck the deck in an uneven rhythm, as the approaching officer walked with a slight gait. The guards behind Jag snapped salutes which the captain returned as he came to a halt in front of his armor-clad visitor.

Jag stood motionless as the short-haired human looked him up and down. The deep lines on the man’s face hinted at a storied past. The captain offered no handshake or any other exchange of pleasantries. He simply nodded at the two guards who stepped away and took up new positions around the bridge.

“Nice costume,” Captain Blaise said.

Jag ignored the remark and shoved Telnor forward. “If I get paid sometime in the next century, I can buy a new one.”

Blaise nodded and offered a fake smile. “Of course. As I said, your money is already being transferred. Since the Corellian government doesn’t officially condone the activities of bounty hunters or criminal activity in general, you’ll have to excuse the lack of official gratitude.”

Jag scoffed as he crossed his arms. “You sure I’m not just excusing _your_ lack of gratitude?”

“Don’t be so petty, Girran,” Blaise retorted. “You’ve done CorSec an enormous favor. This man was becoming quite the nuisance. Besides, it’s comforting knowing there’s _someone_ around to handle our light work.”

Jag didn’t respond; Blaise was trying to provoke him; he wanted an excuse, regardless of how trivial it might be, to blast Jag into the next star system. Instead, Jag forced a smile behind his visor and tried to remain calm.

“Four hundred thousand credits is a lot to pay for light work,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But maybe that’s why you’re still not an admiral.”

Blaise’s sarcastic smile vanished and Jag noticed a few more heads turn to watch the developing quarrel.

“Get off my ship, you worthless piece of—”

“With pleasure.” Jag smiled broadly before Blaise could finish. He backed into the turbolift, as he wasn’t foolish enough to turn his back on an infuriated and embarrassed Blaise.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he said as he waited for the lift doors to close.

The captain’s face was fully flushed, his fists clenched at his side.

“Watch yourself, Girran.”

Jag chuckled. “I’ll be sure to do that, _Captain_.”

The lift’s door slammed shut and began its return trip to the hangar. Jag smiled the whole down.

***

Captain Blaise watched the Corellian freighter disappear with a flash as it made the jump to lightspeed. He stood with his arms crossed at the front of the bridge, his face still flushed with anger. He hated Girran, more than he thought humanly possible, but their past considered, who wouldn’t harbor those feelings?

“Stars alive, Blaise, you better be paying me extra.” Eres Telnor lay on a hoverbed while medical droids tended to his wounds.

“And why would I do that?”

“Look at me!” The Chev used his uninjured hand to motion toward his various wounds. “I’ll end up mostly machine by the time these metalheads get done with me.”

Blaise exhaled and walked over to the hoverbed. He rested a hand on Telnor’s injured shoulder. “Rest assured, we appreciate your sacrifice, Eres.” He turned to a crewman who had just arrived at his side and waited silently for the young man’s report.

“The beacon was successfully installed, sir,” the officer said.

The captain nodded approvingly. “Excellent. No doubt he’s sweeping for it as we speak.” He turned to look at the soldier and eyed him sternly. “And you’re _sure_ that it will remain active over the distances we require?”

“Absolutely, sir,” the operative said confidently.

Blaise nodded approvingly. He had done his part, and he had done it well. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the one to claim credit for killing Jag Girran, but at least Blaise would go to his grave knowing he had contributed to the man’s demise.

Telnor coughed and winced from the pain. “You wouldn’t have anything without me. Girran would still be running free throughout the galax _ahhhhh!_ ”

Blaise squeezed the Chev’s injured shoulder. “You’re right, of course.” He drew his blaster and pointed it at Telnor’s head. “As I said, we appreciate your sacrifice.”

He pulled the trigger and casually dismissed the medical droids. “Jettison him out the airlock.” He pointed to the nearest intelligence officer. “And you, scrub any trace of that bounty from the Holonet.”

He returned his attention to the vast black canvas of space with the spectacular colors of the Hannas Nebula now behind the ship as it set course for Corellia. He did his best to stretch subtly, trying to release some of the pressure in the valve of his prosthetic knee. Blaise smiled, this time genuinely. The galaxy would soon be rid of the bounty hunter—and his former comrade—Jag Girran.


	5. Chapter 5

After spending the better part of a standard week traveling across the galaxy, the blue, green, and white sphere of Surellia filled the viewport of the _Spartus_. Jag smiled.

_Home._

It had been longer than he cared to remember since he had enjoyed an extended period of relaxation. Between paying for the modifications to his ship and maintaining his operating infrastructure—bribes, informant pay schedules, and so on—his coffers had suffered quite a hit.

He had been forced to pursue a seemingly endless string of bounties, sometimes several at a time, the most profitable of which was the Telnor bounty. It had been almost ten months since his last trip home, which had been spoiled by a particularly vicious winter.

Surellia sat on the northeastern edge of the galaxy, west of Mytus and north of the Hydian Way. Not far from Trian, reaching the planet without knowing its coordinates was all but impossible. The majority species was human, but they certainly were not native to the planet. Although Jag had never dedicated a significant amount of time to studying the planet’s biological history, he was aware of the fact that the human colonization of Surellia happened shortly after the Corporate Sector established a presence in the Mytus system.

The planet was actually discovered accidentally. A runaway hyperdrive on a freighter bringing supplies to the Stars’ End penal facility dropped the ship in Surellia’s gravity well. Of the four planets in the system, it was the only habitable one. Once the freighter’s crew had repaired the hyperdrive, they meticulously charted their way back to known space, hoping to eventually return to the planet.

The ship arrived in Corporate Sector space a week later, miraculously unscathed. Initially the crew of the freighter intended to keep the planet’s location a secret, but during a routine inspection of the ship’s log by an unsuspecting technician, the encrypted navigational files were discovered. Shortly thereafter the Corporate Sector Authority began colonization efforts.

However, ten years after the planet was settled, the unpredictability of Wild Space took hold and the primary hyperspace route became clogged with irregularities. CSA technicians and hyperspace scouts worked tirelessly to find a solution, but the technology of the time limited their success. By the time more advanced systems became available, the planet had been forgotten and the CSA had focused its efforts elsewhere.

Then the Trianii discovered the planet.

The feline-like species, renowned in the region for its adventurous habits, blazed a new hyperspace route to Surellia, guided by technologies unique to their people. Given the troubled past of the Trianii and the Corporate Sector Authority, tensions ran high once they discovered the abandoned humans marooned on Surellia.

Despite several isolated conflicts, the leaders of both groups forged a planetary peace agreement which included granting the human colonists renewed access to the rest of the galaxy by way of Trian. Soon the species intermingled and lived amongst each other without incident.

Beyond the benefit of a shared desire to protect the planet from outside influence—not to mention outright discovery—the humans combined their knowledge of the planet with the Trianii’s advanced technology. While several human cities already existed before the planet’s second colonization, the additional technology allowed for environmental and aesthetic improvements.

Much like the Corporate Sector pilots who stumbled upon the planet, Jag became aware of Surellia mostly by accident. Shortly after leaving _Beskade_ , he dabbled in various enterprises as he tried to find ways to survive. He made most of his money as a mercenary and supplemented his income with some low-level pirating. His preferred targets were in the Corporate Sector, as they didn’t have the resources or sharp pilots the Imperials did.

Throughout his time in the region, he had come in contact with several Trianii and had established an amiable relationship with them. He admired their inquisitive nature and marveled at the designs of their starships, as well as their piloting abilities. Still, it wasn’t until a few years into his pirating venture that he became completely accepted by the Trianii.

Two light years from Fibuli, inside Corporate Sector space, Jag discovered a freight convoy he had been tracking, but also discovered a lone ship under attack by the cargo transports’ escort detail. The standard escort for CSA shipments at that time was three IRD starfighters and a _Marauder_ -class corvette.

The lone ship, which he later discovered was Trianii, appeared to be managing well enough when Jag first arrived, but the CSA ships soon began to overwhelm it. At the time, Jag made his home in an A-24 Sleuth scout ship that he had lifted from a spacedock in Castell a few months after striking out on his own. While light on weaponry, it was heavy on speed.

Jag sided with the outnumbered fighter, if only to satisfy his personal vendetta against the Corporate Sector. The distraction that Jag’s assistance created was more than enough for the other pilot to gain the upper hand. Jag and his apparent ally ultimately overwhelmed their opponents and persuaded the defenseless CSA transports to surrender. Jag relieved them of whatever supplies he could store in his ship.

But Jag remained clueless as to the identity of his ally. The ship’s design was unfamiliar, one he had never encountered despite his visits to the galaxy’s more exotic areas. Still, the pilot provided him a set of coordinates along with instructions to follow them precisely.

When Jag’s ship dropped out of hyperspace, the beautiful Surellia filled his viewport, as did three capital ships and the previously lone starfighter. He was brought aboard the largest of the capital ships, where he was properly introduced to his companion from the recent dogfight, as well as the captain of the battle cruiser. In short, the Trianii pilot and captain were overwhelmingly grateful. At that time, the Trianii were constantly at odds with the CSA, who habitually ignored the boundaries of Trianii space.

In return for his assistance, the Trianii granted Jag access to Surellia. He also acquired a reliable ally and contact in a part of the galaxy where anything more than enemy was rare. Over time, as he amassed more capital, Jag began establishing a home on Surellia’s largest continent. He enlisted some of the locals to assist in excavating parts of the landscape when the tasks grew too trying for a single person, but for the most part, the seemingly nondescript dwelling that sat atop the bluffs along the western side of a massive freshwater lake was his own creation.

Approximately twenty meters below the house, he hollowed out a portion of the bluffs and built a hangar that stored the _Spartus_ , his airspeeder, and a few other small craft he used on occasion when traveling on Surellia. Eventually he was able to afford and install a containment field for the manmade cavern, protecting the expensive hardware within. It was a spectacular sanctuary with a spectacular view on a spectacular planet. It was home.

***

Jag glided through the planet’s atmosphere after receiving clearance from the planetary patrol group and descended to a cruising altitude only a few hundred meters above the terrain. The summer season had arrived in full, and the forests were alive with color. He passed over several miles of trees before having to raise the ship well over five kilometers in order to clear an impressive mountain range with snow-capped peaks.

On the other side of the mountains were vast plains, parts of them bright green, others a brilliant shade of blue interspersed with pockets of dark red brush. The diverse fauna of the plains was completely visible, no longer hidden by the massive hardwoods of the expansive forests. Various quadrupeds—some enormous, others unremarkable—along with a herd of bipedal herbivores casually grazed the seemingly infinite fields.

Beyond the plains, nearly one hundred kilometers east, one of the planet’s urban developments stood silhouetted against the horizon. Like most of the major settlements on the planet, the city was modestly sized but beautiful by galactic standards. Jag swung the _Spartus_ around the northern side of the city, which sat along a pristine stretch of coastline.

Jag passed over several more settlements, a vast forest with enormous trees whose leaves changed colors based on the sun’s position in the sky, and a wide expanse covered with irrigation canals and farm land. He had traveled another several thousand kilometers east when the bluff that housed his dwelling finally came into view. He docked his ship in the manmade cave carved into the bluff.

“ArDee, there should be plenty of power available for you to run the usual diagnostics. I also want you to run a scan on the hyperdrive and sublight engines; make sure nothing shorted or blew on our way out of the nebula. Upload everything to the house computer. I’ll check it later.”

“As you wish, sir,” ArDee said. “Though I doubt I will discover any malfunctions in the drives. I monitored their status for the duration of the trip.”

Jag nodded as he activated the ship’s security system and headed down the hatch.

“Figured you’d say that. But do it anyway.”

An hour later, after preparing a large meal that consisted mostly of roasted roshmi—an herbivore indigenous to Surellia—Jag enjoyed an extended sanisteam and laid down to sleep. It was good to be home, if only for a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Part I! Stay tuned for Part II as we step into Jag's past...


	6. Part II

* * *

**Part II: Separate Ways**

_7 ABY (9 Years Ago)_

* * *

 “That’s three!”

The man sitting next to Jag Girran slapped his knee and held out his hand for payment as they watched another Star Destroyer dropped out of hyperspace.

“No way,” Jag protested. “There was a dreadnaught before that.”

The man shook his head. “Already in orbit. The bet was on incoming ships only. Pay up!”

Jag sighed and rolled his eyes, and tossed a couple of credcoins onto the table between the two. The two sat on a fairly uncomfortable sofa in front of a broad viewport on the starboard side of their _Lancer_ -class frigate.

The _Renegade_ —a name which perfectly described their crew—had taken up a position near Corulag two standard days earlier. While the size of the ship typically demanded a substantial crew, several weeks’ worth of tedious electrical modifications and system reprogramming had allowed the crew to slave most of the vessel’s systems together well enough to serve the group’s purposes.

Since arriving in the system, the ship had been transmitting an upper-level clearance code, posing as a transport for a variety of hazardous materials required by the scientists working at the Sienar research facility. The ploy served the crew in several ways: it allowed them to remain in the system without attracting too much suspicion, and it provided them an opportunity to study the pattern of the facilities’ patrols.

However, the crew was running out of time. They could only sit in the area with their fictitious cargo for so long before someone decided to pry. Despite the recent appearance of another Star Destroyer—which cost Jag yet another couple hundred credits—the group’s leaders had decided they would make their move today.

The group—they called themselves _Beskade_ as an homage to the ancient Mandalorian weapon—had spent the better part of the last two years preying on merchant and military convoys throughout the Core and Inner Rim. They lived dangerously, but their swiftly executed strikes had helped prolong their survival thus far.

Jag pulled another chair over so he could put his feet up and reclined with his hands behind his head.

“I guess breaking even isn’t _too_ bad,” he said with half a grin.

“You hustled me the last time, and we both know it.”

Jag chuckled and watched a dreadnaught maneuver out of orbit and head for deep space. A few minutes later it jumped to lightspeed.

“Think we’re going to make a move anytime soon?” the man asked. “Whatever happened to the ‘We need to move now’ plan?”

Jag shrugged. “Who knows, Blaise. The way the guys have been running operations lately, I’ve given up trying to anticipate anything we do.”

Blaise nodded. “At least it’s not as bad as you-know-who.”

Jag shifted uncomfortably and crossed his arms over his chest. Any mention of their former leader put him and anyone else in the squad on edge. Years earlier, the man they had been respected and trusted as their leader had turned his back on them and left them for dead.

“Get to your stations, you flots.”

Jag and Blaise both flinched as a short but stocky human barked orders at them. The man, dressed in the same black commando gear as Blaise and Jag, had managed to surprise the two despite his heavy steps that pounded the deck’s grated floor. “Time to mobilize.”

He continued past the pair and turned a corner in search of other crew members in the area. Jag and Blaise exchanged glances and rolled their eyes, each grinning as they stood up.

“Let’s get to it,” Blaise said, clapping Jag on the shoulder.

“Watch my back out there.”

Blaise grinned. “Don’t plan on it. I’m a leader, not a follower, remember?”

*** 

The _Renegade_ secured an airlock at the orbital research facility and released its squad of mercenaries into the corridor beyond. After breaking down into pairs, Jag and the others moved through the station quickly but quietly. The station clock was synchronized with Corulag City, and the crew of the _Renegade_ attacked during the middle of the night.

Since the commissioning of the Sienar facility, no one had dared attack it. Although there was a substantial amount of munitions stored there, infiltrating the security was no easy feat. But Jag and his men weren’t typical pirates; they were ex-Imperials. They had access to contacts and data the average citizen or Imperial couldn’t come close to touching. And they knew how to use them.

Blaise, just a few steps ahead of Jag, approached an intersection of corridors slowly, then held up a fist and dropped to a knee. Jag followed suit and raised the barrel of his rifle as he checked behind them. When he turned back around, Blaise had darted across the intersection and was watching the corridor to the left. He nodded towards the opposite corner, and Jag dashed across to the wall and checked the right corridor.

The entire area seemed deserted. They encountered no security patrols, no civilians—not even janitorial workers. It was eerie, and Jag didn’t like it.

“Something’s not right,” Jag whispered.

Blaise nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re telling me. No way should this place be _this_ empty. I know it’s late, but this is just weird.”

They continued to creep through the corridors toward the rendezvous point. Jag and Blaise were nearly there when the station’s silence gave way to blaring alarm klaxons. Jag swore and slammed his fist against the nearest wall.

“Idiots!”

Blaise turned loose his own string of curses. “How’d they manage this? The place is a ghost town and they triggered half the alarms in the station!”

Jag shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know how some of these guys didn’t get us killed in Scimitar.”

“That makes two of us.”

They turned down another corridor which led them past several large transparisteel viewports that looked out upon what appeared to be massive test rooms. The areas were empty, save for a few maintenance droids. The alarms continued to wail, but still not a single soldier or security officer was in sight.

Jag and Blaise turned another corner, hoping it would set them on the path to the rendezvous point. Instead, they found themselves in front of a large set of doors. Having nowhere else to go, Jag quickly sliced the controls to the doors. He and Blaise stepped forward into some sort of laboratory that made them both pause.

It was less of a laboratory than it was an armory. The walls were lined with storage containers labeled with the weaponry that resided within. Large-scale laser cannons rested on the floor near work stations, and a large bank of computers filled a raised platform next to monitors several meters in size displaying ongoing diagnostics.

The ceiling was surprisingly high and a set of blast doors, which were currently open, revealed an adjacent chamber that appeared to be a testing area for the ordnance scattered around the lab. From what Jag could see, it too looked deserted.

Blaise flashed a broad smile at Jag as he took off for the nearest container. “We hit the jackpot!”

Jag shouldered his blaster and walked towards the diagnostics platform, casually inspecting some of the weaponry on the way.

“The hell with the mission, this room alone will pay off better than a month’s worth of raids!”

Jag grinned at Blaise’s enthusiasm. He was like a Hutt in a slimepool, beyond smitten with the firepower waiting to be seized. While a few of the rifles that rested on the tops of the containers certainly appealed to him, Jag preferred to investigate the computer systems and see if he could locate anything a bit more valuable—perhaps blueprints of weapons in development—that would attract a lucrative price on the black market.

He sat down at one of the terminals and went to work on slicing his way into the system. He shrugged his pack off his shoulders and removed a datapad that plugged into the terminal’s access port, then tapped a few commands on the device’s screen and let it run through its programming. A few moments later the terminal’s screen came to life, granting him full access.

“Hello, sir.”

Jag nearly jumped out of the chair. The crisp, Coruscanti-accented voice was certainly _not_ expected. Blaise glanced over at the platform, but returned his attention to his exploration of the weapons crates. Jag studied the terminal for a moment, looking above and behind the monitor for some sort of microphone. Finding nothing, he simply spoke out loud.

“Um, hello there. With, uh, whom I speaking?”

“My designation is Ay-Arr-Dee-One. My primary functions include, but are not limited to, starship system management, security, diagnostics, and navigation. My programming is equipped with experimental subroutines which allow for self-creation and implementation of new operational directives pertinent to various circumstances, so long as they do not interfere with my primary functions. Furthermore, I—”

“Alright, alright.” Jag waved his hand to cut the voice off. “I get it.” He looked around the chamber, trying to find another point of access. “AR-D1, how many entrances does this room have?”

“There are three entrances, although only one is limited to approved personnel. The clearances required to gain access to this entrance include—”

“Thanks,” Jag said. “Whoever designed you had quite a propensity for verbosity.”

“Oh, very much so, sir. In fact, the main architect of my primary programming was well-regarded for his mastery of multiple languages and his ability to—”

“Will you please shut up?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jag noticed Blaise’s head poke out from behind a utility bin, but Jag waved him back to his scrounging.

“As you wish, sir,” the voice said before falling silent.

Jag dug through the terminal’s pathways, copying most of what he found to the datapad still plugged into the access port. Thousands of files flashed across the screen as the computer transferred the information. Once the data dump was complete, the computer’s voice reactivated.

“Your transfer is complete, sir. Is there anything else I may assist you with today?”

Jag started to decline but then hesitated. As annoying as the conversation had been, the program could prove useful.

“Do you have access to this station’s security systems? Surveillance cameras, personnel movement, that kind of stuff?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Jag thought for a moment then called to Blaise. “I think I found our ticket out of here.”

“Yeah?” Blaise stepped out from behind the utility bin holding two blaster rifles with three more slung across his back.

“What the—what are you planning on doing? Invading Coruscant by yourself?”

Blaise smiled. “That’s actually not a bad idea. You should see some of the hardware in here.”

Jag shook his head and turned back to the terminal. “Like I was saying, I found our way out of here. If we upload this programming into a datapad, we’ll know where everyone is, every access tunnel, every corridor—we’re set.”

Blaise tossed a light repeater rifle in Jag’s direction, who rushed to catch it before it hit the ground. “Power pack’s fresh. Time to move.”

Jag agreed and quickly downloaded AR-D1’s program into his datapad. He removed an earpiece from his pack and synced it with the datapad before heading out of the armory. Blaise was waiting for him outside, checking the corridor for security. He gave a reassuring nod to Jag, then both headed to down a corridor to the right toward what Jag believed was a shortcut.

“I’m _pretty_ sure that if we head to the next intersection and cut back to the left, we’ll be able to bypass the way we came, and probably dodge security reinforcements.”

“‘Pretty’ sure, huh? Your confidence is quite inspiring.”

Jag rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. They reached the next intersection without incident, but as they headed down a corridor that ran parallel to the one connected to the armory, they rounded a corner and encountered another surprise. They stood in the doorway of had once been a mess hall but now served as an emergency shelter. Unlike the armory, this room was not empty.

It was packed full of people.

There had been some idle chatter when Jag and Blaise first stumbled in, but as soon as the crowd noticed the intruders, the room fell silent. Jag and Blaise exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised in indecision. The way forward lay on the other side of the room. Backtracking would take time and likely end up landing them in some security officer’s crosshairs.

On the other hand, moving through a packed crowd of potentially hostile civilians, who could be armed, was hardly a wise alternative. The pair continued to hesitate, their weapons aimed uncomfortably at the crowd in front of them.

“Any ideas, navigator?”

Jag held a finger to his earpiece, trying to intensify the voice speaking incessantly about the efficiency of the architectural design of that particular portion of the station, as well as which turbolifts offered access to certain levels. Not one bit of it was relevant to the situation at hand, but up to this point, Jag hadn’t the time to put an end to it.

“AR-D1, is there any way to bypass this? Any maintenance hatches, any private quarters, anything?” Jag scanned the blueprints on his datapad, but as the program confirmed, there was no other option. “We’ve got to go back.”

Blaise shook his head and seemed to hold his weapon with more purpose and confidence than before. “Not happening. We’re going through here.”

“Blaise, no,” Jag said quietly. “There has to be at least two hundred people in here, and for all we know, they’re armed.”

“Armed?” Blaise snorted and gestured towards the arsenal strapped to his back. “I think we’ll be okay.”

Jag scanned the crowd uneasily and tried to bury the gnawing feeling that was creeping into his stomach. He kept his blaster rifle raised, but kept his finger away from the trigger. Conversely, Blaise’s confidence seemed so strong that Jag was certain he could smell it.

Then Jag’s reservations were justified by the sizzling shot of a blaster that grazed his left sleeve. The scent of singed fabric hit his nostrils as Blaise opened fire.


	7. Chapter 7

The bodies were hitting the metallic floor with a sickening _thud_ that made Jag’s stomach turn. He watched in utter dismay as laser fire erupted from Blaise’s blaster and ripped through the chests of the people in front of them. Those still alive were shouting and screaming, and in a horrifying display of survivalist instinct, they tried to hide behind one another, using the nearest person they could find as a shield.

Laser bolts continued to claim victims as Jag threw himself at Blaise. The blaster rifle shook free of Blaise’s grasp and slid across the floor. Blaise tried to wrestle Jag off of him, cursing him throughout the scuffle. Jag fought back, using his position to keep his counterpart pinned. He winced as Blaise kneed, elbowed, or punched him in the side, but he managed to keep his face clear of any blows. It wasn’t until blaster fire erupted again that Jag launched himself clear of Blaise and tried to find cover.

“See? I told you!” he shouted at Blaise as he brought his blaster to bear on the crowd. “You korked this whole thing up!”

His stomach began to turn again as his finger rested on the trigger, and he tried to fight the resistance he felt from every fiber of his being. What he was about to do was wrong, and he knew it. Still, it was his life or theirs, and he wasn’t about to die. Not here, not like this.

Jag pulled the trigger and unleashed a barrage of blaster bolts into the crowd.  Return fire erupted from the back of the room, and more people began to fall to the ground as they fell victim to the crossfire.

The sickening screams roared back to life but twice as loud. Jag fought the urge to vomit, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold it down. He tried to keep his fire clear of those who appeared innocent—or at least unarmed—but some of his shots still connected with unintended targets. Still, Blaise and Jag’s efforts were hardly futile; the enemy fire was dwindling in strength and frequency, and eventually stopped.

Jag looked around the room, which had become nothing more than a smoldering mass grave, and felt his stomach begin to spin out of control. He turned and vomited fiercely, his face turning a dark red and his body shaking from the convulsions. When it finally stopped, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and turned to Blaise, who gave him an amused smirk.

“Welcome to the big show.”

Blood rushed to Jag’s face and his vision blurred as he tried to stifle the sudden burst of rage.

“Those people were _innocent.”_

“The frack they were!” Blaise shot back. “They were _Imperials_.”

“So were _we_!”

Blaise shrugged and shook his head. “You’re weaker than I thought.”

Jag’s blood boiled. “ _Weak?_ ”

Jag swung the butt of his rifle at Blaise and connected with his cheek. He heard a crack as the bone broke, and blood shot out of Blaise’s mouth. Blaise staggered and tried to return a punch but didn’t muster enough power to knock Jag back. Jag felt the material of Blaise’s glove scrape his skin before swinging an elbow back across Blaise’s face. This time, the large-framed Corellian fell to a knee, propping himself up with one of his rifles.

Blaise’s face was already beginning to swell. Blood seeped from multiple lacerations, most notably a gash across his temple, yet he remained defiant. He spit out a mouthful of blood and wiped his face.

He gave Jag a blood-soaked grin. “That’s it?”

Jag reached back and delivered one last blow to Blaise’s cheek, who finally crumbled to the floor and fell silent. Jag composed himself and checked his weapons—then the room again—and headed for the rear door. He made sure AR-D1 was still online and plugged the earpiece back in. He started out into the corridor but then paused.

As much as he wanted to leave Blaise for dead after what he’d been forced to watch—and do—living with the fact that he left behind a comrade would only exacerbate his suffering in the aftermath of the nightmare he was trying to survive.

He trudged back into the room and tried to haul Blaise onto his shoulder, but nearly collapsed under the weight of the Corellian.

 _It’s like trying to throw kriffing a wookiee_.

He gave up on trying to lift Blaise’s body and instead grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and started pulling. It was hardly an ideal situation—he only had one hand to shoot with while the other was pulling a half ton of a human. He managed to evade detection by the security patrols that had started after the alarms by sticking to the utility passages his newfound electronic counterpart not only identified but explained in excruciating detail.

 _By the time this is over, I’ll be able to draw the blasted blueprints in my sleep_.

When Jag eventually emerged from one of the utility hallways, he nearly tripped over the other _Beskade_ members that had entered the facility. The stocky, tan-skinned one of the group shot Jag a look of surprise—and then bewilderment—after he noticed Blaise’s unconscious body.

“What in the blazes happened to you two?”

“Long story.”

The man nodded. “Fair enough. Tell me later—we’ve got to get out of here.”

Jag started to agree then stopped and shook his head. “We’re not leaving this dump empty handed.” He jerked his thumb in the direction from which he had just come. “We found enough munitions to supply a small army. We’d be nuts not to get what we can carry.”

The man raised an eyebrow and shrugged after looking at one of his counterparts who nodded in agreement.

“I take it you know where you’re going?”

Jag nodded. “But I’m not taking him with me.” He laid Blaise down on the deck and swung his rifle around. “Let’s make this quick.”

*** 

The pack started toward the weapons storage room, minus Blaise and two of squadmates who had been tasked with carting Blaise back to the _Renegade_. They managed to reach their destination without incident, but their luck ran out on the trip back to the _Renegade’s_ docking point. Twice they encountered heavily armed security squads but managed to escape with only a few minor casualties.

They found the two men who had carried Blaise standing guard of the _Renegade’s_ dock at an airlock. Their eyes widened as they inspected the hardware Jag and the others had with them. They picked up some of the loose rifles and blaster pistols and carried them on board.

“Did you see this stuff?” asked Jag’s comrade as they helped load the weapons.

Jag shrugged. “I glanced at some of it. I was more interested in some of the programming they had installed to the mainframe. Pretty fascinating.”

The man chuckled. “Programming? Programming won’t save your skin in a fight, pal.”

“But it can help you avoid the fight in the first place. It got me back to you guys in one piece, after all.” Jag flashed a grin. “Besides, you’re the marksman, Shenn.”

Shenn rolled his eyes. “Cute.”

Jag couldn’t help but laugh, nor could the others within earshot. Shenn was possibly one of the worst shots Jag had ever met, but his ferocity and weapons knowledge was remarkable and immensely useful in a fight. He could modify almost any gun, whether it was increasing its cooling system or increasing the output from the standard power packs. He just couldn’t shoot worth a crink.

The squad finished loading their new arsenal and sealed their side of the docking ring. Jag headed for the bridge to check on the preflight sequences, then made his way to the rear of the ship to help store the newly acquired assets. A few of the weapons caught his eye, mainly the repeater rifle that was smaller and sleeker than the usual light model that saturated black markets and supply depots throughout the galaxy. He shouldered the rifle and tossed several power packs into an equipment pack.

Before closing the pack, he noticed the datapad that contained his new computer program. Shenn was the only one he had really discussed it with; besides, their outfit was comprised of ex-soldiers—they wouldn’t have much use for a program like AR-D1.

Jag was getting ready to head back to his quarters when the door at the opposite end of the hold opened and a bloodied hulk of a man limped through.

“You…kriffing…bastard,” he hissed in between breaths.

Jag stopped in his tracks and stared, his legs refusing to move as if they were bolted to the floor. “Blaise? What the frack are you doing moving around? You looked in a mirror lately?”

“You tried to kill me.” Blaise practically spit out the words between labored breaths. Jag guessed at least one of his ribs had to be broken.

“The hell I did!” Jag felt his face flush. “And I’m not the one that opened fire on a group of civilians!”

Blaise rolled his eyes—rather, _an_ eye. The other was swollen shut. Jag cringed as he realized just how much damage he inflicted on his friend.

“Civilians? _Civilians?_ I guess I imagined them shooting at us, and I guess I imagined you shooting back.”

“That was self defense, you skrag, and you know it. If it hadn’t been for your kriffing twitchy trigger finger, none of that would’ve happened. We could’ve left. They could’ve lived.” Jag pointed a finger at Blaise. “Their blood is on your hands, _not_ mine.”

Jag was seething. The nearly uncontrollable shaking that had hit him after the shootout on the facility had returned. He glanced around the hold while Blaise continued to limp towards him. The others in the room exchanged looks as they watched the argument unfold. Jag was no Jedi, but he still swore could sense their confusion as well as their suspicion. Apparently, Blaise could too, because he began to plead his case.

“This _traitor_ tried to kill me!” He grabbed a nearby crate for support. “He hit me… _shot_ me…he practically left me for dead.”

Jag remained silent but clenched his fists a little tighter. He decided it would be wiser to wait his turn to explain himself; besides, Blaise hadn’t said anything untrue so far. Blaise continued to explain what had transpired, detailing the firefight with the stations’ occupants and Jag’s attack against him. What he failed to mention, however, was the all too brief moral debate that preceded the shootout.

Their comrades in the room said nothing once Blaise finished, but their eyes collectively shifted to Jag, and from some of the looks he was getting, explaining his side wasn’t going to be as simple as he thought.

“I’m not going to stand here and tell you I didn’t attack Blaise.” Some of the onlookers raised their eyebrows as they were clearly expecting some sort protest. “What I will tell you is that you haven’t heard the full truth. None of what you’ve been told would have happened if Blaise had just turned around and left the room. We could have bypassed the entire room and left those people alone. But he wasn’t having it.

“I attacked him because he opened fire on _civilians_. Yes, there were people armed in the back of the room. But the first to die were innocent—at least as far as we know. I don’t care if half the people in that room were carrying blasters. They were scared, and they were going to let us leave.”

Some of the men in the room nodded slowly while others continued to scowl and shifted slowly toward Blaise’s position. There was a subtle alignment of allegiances occurring, and Jag realized very quickly that his supporters were not the majority.

“So, you admit you attacked him.”

Jag turned deliberately towards the voice and then looked the man straight in the eye.

“Yes, Shenn. I attacked him.”

“You’re aware that this violates our code.”

“Our _code_?” Jag laced his words with annoyance and mockery. “You mean the code we had when we were Imperials? The same Imperials Blaise slaughtered? _That_ code?” When Shenn said nothing, Jag continued. “To hell with the code. And to hell with _you_ if you’re going to condone what he did.”

Shenn’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Jag.”       

“He’s right, you know.” Another voice had joined the fray.

Jag looked back to the right side of the room where a tall but strong Fondorian stood with his arms crossed. With a square jaw and bald but scarred scalp, he was one of the more imposing members of the group. And Jag was all but elated that he appeared to be an ally.

“We left the Empire behind for a reason. If you two want to run some kind of a death squad, so be it. But count me out.”

Jag turned back to Shenn, who had moved closer to Blaise, as had the others who were apparently joining his camp. Likewise, those in support of Jag had moved considerably closer to where he stood.

“Stay out of this, Bregen,” Shenn snapped.

The Fondorian’s hand started to slide to the blaster holstered on his hip. “I don’t think so.”

Beads of sweat started to trickle down Jag’s forehead and cheeks. The two tempers he feared the most were starting to flare.

“Look, Blaise, I’m sorry…for whatever it’s worth. You’re my friend—but you almost got us killed. And for _nothing_.”

Blaise glared at him with a look that sent a cold chill down his spine. “I’m not your friend, you worthless slime.”

Jag nearly staggered as he felt the blood drain from his face. The man he had gone to battle with, nearly died with, and relied on countless times to protect him had just stabbed him through the heart with a vibroblade and was twisting it with all his might.

Jag spared one last glance around the room, taking note of who had sided with whom.

“So this is how it ends.”

Jag whipped the barrel of his rifle around and aimed at Blaise. He heard someone—rather, several people—shout in protest but it was too late. He was committed, he was angry, and he wanted blood. He fired three shots, and Blaise’s body shuddered three times.

The first hit him in the right shoulder, the second in the left thigh, and the third in the left knee. With nothing to support his weight, Blaise collapsed. Shenn and the rest of Blaise’s supporters opened fire.

Bregen already had his blaster drawn and was firing away. Several of Blaise’s men fell, as did the man directly to Jag’s left.

“Girran! Hangar! _Now!_ ” Bregen shouted.

Jag nodded and started backing toward the door behind him while he used the lid from a nearby crates as a makeshift shield. Bregen moved with him, as did the others on their “side” who were still standing. Jag spared a glance before ducking through the doorway, then began spraying covering fire for the others scrambling behind him. Their enemies—friends and brothers-in-arms only minutes earlier—were holding their positions, which was perfectly fine as far as Jag was concerned.

 _This is so wrong_.

His focus sharpened as a blaster bolt ripped by the left side of his head and his nostrils flared as the scent of singed cloth stung his sinuses. Jag concentrated his fire on a stack of crates near the center of the room, doing his best to keep the most forward attackers pinned down. Once the last of his allies ducked through the door, he hit the door jam and fire into the control panel. He turned to Bregen, who was wiping his brow with a piece of shirt he had torn off, and smiled weakly.

“Wasn’t so bad.”

Bregen said nothing, but shrugged his eyebrows and pursed his lips. His face was tense— _very_ tense—and his eyes seemed distant. His breathing was still heavy and rapid, and his massive shoulders heaved with each breath.

Jag studied him for a moment then started to head down the corridor toward the hangar where he found some of the group prepping shuttles. He learned the others had set out to sabotage the _Renegade’s_ engines. Jag squeezed Bregen’s shoulder as he went to pass, but Bregen grabbed his arm and stopped him.

As he looked the Fondorian in the eye, an uncomfortable chill ran up Jag’s spine. There were very few times outside of combat that Jag had ever felt that sensation, but there was something quite unsettling about the look in Bregen’s eyes.

“I know why you did it, Jag. I really do. Stang, I probably would’ve done the same thing.” Another chill ran up Jag’s spine. “But if I’m going to back you on this, you have to know there is absolutely no turning back. It’s over. _All_ of it. We have to disappear, every one of us.”

Jag set his jaw but didn’t break his gaze. He knew Bregen was right, but it did nothing to soften the blow of the harsh reality that he would never again—at least for the foreseeable future—see the men he had come to know as brothers.

“I understand,” he said finally, then smiled sadly. “I’d say it’s been an honor, but let’s be honest: we’re just a step above a half-dead nerf.”

Bregen laughed, but Jag knew it was a joyless one. The military was the only life Bregen had ever known, and while _Beskade_ was hardly a sanctioned division of _any_ military, the ex-soldiers had never lost their bond. Fighting to survive and evade capture did amazing things for camaraderie and, in Bregen’s case, stability.

Jorg Bregen had essentially been adopted by the Empire at a young age after his parents were killed during a labor riot in Fondor City and emerged years later from the sector’s Imperial Academy as a top graduate. Along with Jag, Bregen was one of the original members of Scimitar. Though initially he and Jag had been far from friends, the last few years had changed that. Aside from Blaise, Bregen was the only other person Jag could completely trust.

And now, he was the _only_ person Jag could trust.

The moment of sentimentality was shattered as the door they had just passed through shuddered from the detonation of a breaching charge. A thick cloud of debris and dust billowed into the corridor and suppressing fire began to pour through the opening.

“Uh oh.”

Jag brought his weapon to bear and did his best to shove Bregen down the corridor.

“Get your kriffing behind to the hangar, Jag!” Bregen shouted at him, resisting Jag’s shoves.

Jag stubbornly stood his ground. “I started this mess. I’m not letting you get blasted into the next galaxy because of me.”

“Stubborn ass.” Still, Bregen broke into a run toward the hangar, his boots pounding away at the deck. Jag wasn’t far behind him, though he stopped sporadically to return fire on their pursuers. They burst into the hangar at a full sprint but came to a sudden halt when they found themselves staring at an all-but-empty flight deck.

“Uh, Jag?”

They looked at each other, both wide-eyed and pouring sweat, each wearing the same look of dismay.

Their comrades had abandoned them.

 _So much for camaraderie_.

There was one shuttle left, but it wasn’t the _Lambda_ -class they had grown so accustomed to flying. Instead, they would have to flee for their lives in an over-glorified bucket of bolts that even a scrapyard would reject.

Bregen glanced at Jag, his eyebrow cocked. “Could be fun.”

The _Merren_ -class shuttle—if it could even be truly considered a “shuttle”—was hardly in prime condition, though that mattered little to Jag. When it came to his preferred style of ships, the _Merrens_ ranked at the bottom.

“Yeah, I think we’re better off just jumping through the containment field.”

A blaster bolt scorched the wall just behind Jag, forcing him to drop to a knee and dive for cover. Bregen hit the blastdoor’s control panel then fired several quick shots into it to buy them a few more precious moments.

“Escape pods?”

“I’d rather not get blasted to atoms while helplessly sitting in a flying coffin,” Jag said. “But if you’re up for it, I think they’re a couple decks that way.”

“Well,” Bregen said with a measure of resignation in his voice, “at least the _Merren’s_ got a laser cannon.”

Jag nodded and started for the ship. He cringed as he spotted a several rust spots on the hull and hoped that the wiring and drives were in better condition. Given the disaster that was his day, he didn’t expect much luck.

 _Maybe I_ should _just jump out the containment field_.

“Get the systems fired up,” Bregen yelled to him. “I’m going to hold them off.”

“The kriff you are. I’m not scraping your hide off the deck and I’m not flying this slag pile by myself.”

Jorg grinned, and after taking another look at the still sealed blast door, jogged toward the ship. Once onboard, they scrambled around the cockpit, bringing systems online much more quickly than they should have.

“Skip the diagnostics, skip the drive checks…just get us shields and throw power to the engines.”

Bregen gave Jag a mock salute while his free hand’s fingers continued to fly across the sensor boards and control screens. Jag flipped several switches along the pilot’s side wall and checked the status of the drives. He would have to operate with limited information, but at this point, he would rather die in an explosion caused by a faulty fuel line or malfunctioning engine than at the hands of his former squadmates.

“Repulsors are ready to go, but we’re going to need another minute or two before the thrusters and ion drives warm up,” Bregen said. He had barely finished talking when the ship rumbled and a muffled explosion echoed through the hangar. Jag checked the feed from one of the rear security holocams.

“In other words, we’re screwed.”

Bregen glanced at the same holocam Jag was watching and nodded affirmatively. “Yep.”

Jag continued to look for a way to rush the warming of the drives. The canopy began to flash as their ex-squadmates opened fire on the shuttle. He checked the status of the ship’s shields, which were hardly optimal but sufficient, and prepared for a potentially lethal gambit.

“I’m cutting the shields in three—”

“You’re doing _what_?” Jorg shouted at him.

“Two—”

“You do realize we _are going to die_ if you do that, right?”

“One.”

The shuttle continued to shake as blaster shots peppered the vulnerable hull, but the firing eased for a moment as the shuttle rocked again—this time from the drives roaring to life.

“Ah ha!”

“Girran, you crazy son of a—”

“Don’t jinx me!” he growled. He eased back on the control yoke, trying to get the ship out of the hangar. He could feel the drives firing unevenly; they were clearly not up to the task of a speedy getaway. But he didn’t need a speedy getaway. He just needed to get into open space.

“Jorg, get that cannon going. And seal off the rear compartment!”

Bregen nodded and got to work. The shuttle lurched forward, dipping haphazardly, but kept moving toward the containment field nonetheless. He could hear and feel the laser cannon open fire as it created rhythmic vibrations across the deck of the cockpit.

“Almost there…”

“Rear compartment sealed!” Jorg announced.

“Almost there…”

“Full power to the drives! We’re good to go!”

Jag slammed on the accelerator and cringed as the force of the drives almost threw him through his seat.

“Uh, Jorg?” He groaned as the ship breached the containment field and launched into the vast emptiness of space. “Compensators?”

He glanced at his copilot and couldn’t help but grin—Jorg had fared no better with the rapid acceleration. As Jorg activated the compensators and dialed them back to normal levels, Jag relaxed in his seat but kept the pressure on the drives. He had to assume that those still on the _Renegade_ were scrambling to their stations and, even with a depleted crew, would attempt some sort of a pursuit, and at worst, a shootout. Jag wanted no part of either.


	8. Chapter 8

As the shuttle continued to distance itself from the _Renegade_ , Jag and Bregen prepared the navicomputer for the jump to lightspeed. Silence descended upon the cabin as they went about their work, and Jag welcomed the quiet. Though the time elapsed from the start of the shootout in the cargo bay to their escape from the hangar amounted to less than twenty minutes, the physical and emotional toll it had taken on Jag—and apparently Bregen—was considerable.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the small massacre he and Blaise had perpetrated at the Sienar station. The nauseating feeling he had felt while firing into the crowd of civilians crept back once again, and he probably would have vomited had Jorg not distracted him with a status update.

“ _Renegade’s_ coming around, weapons are online. No lock yet.”

Jag shook his head in frustration. “So much for the guys taking out the engines.” He doubled checked the output on the drives and rerouted some power back to the shields. “Status on the jump coordinates?”

“We’re all set. Navicomputer’s basing our heading on the ion trails from the other shuttles. I’ve got a pretty good idea of where they were headed.”

“No.” Jag shook his head and his voice softened. When all he received for an answer was a confused look, he continued. “We can’t. It’s over, Jorg. You practically said so on the _Renegade_. No point in chasing them down to try to keep the unit alive. There’s no going back.”

Bregen didn’t say anything, but his downcast eyes were more than enough to drive the point home.

“We can’t just _leave_ them.”

Jag sighed, but not out of annoyance. He certainly understood Jorg’s objection, but equally understood that to follow their brothers in arms was to doom them all.

“They made it out at least five minutes before we did. It’s been another fifteen since we left the _Renegade_. Their trail is almost cold. If we follow them, we might as well throw up landing lights and hand out an invitation to come along for the ride.” Jag paused and gave Bregen an apologetic look. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s the only way.”

When Bregen didn’t respond, Jag pressed a bit further.

“We have to go underground. And I don’t mean like what we’ve been doing for the last couple years. I’m talking sever all contacts.” He stopped and locked eyes with Bregen. “ _All_.”

After a long, heavy silence, Jorg extended a hand. “In that case, it’s been an honor.”

***

Jag stood alone at the spaceport—which was one of the seediest he had ever visited—and watched the ion flux of the _Merren_ -class shuttle’s drives flare as it accelerated higher into the planet’s atmosphere. He felt empty—truly _alone_ —for perhaps the first time since he had learned his father had been killed. No longer was he an Imperial commando. No longer was he a _Beskad_.

He was just Jag Girran.

But Jag Girran was not simply a hapless citizen roaming the shadowports of the galaxy or a smuggler with a fast ship, cheap blaster, and overdeveloped ego. He was an ex-soldier, and one of the most dangerous the Empire had ever produced.         Unfortunately, he was a bankrupt ex-soldier.

Jag continued to watch the sky, his eyes following the glimmer of the shuttle’s engines until it disappeared into the deepest reaches of Axxila’s night sky. Jorg Bregen’s new life had just begun; it was time for Jag to start his. Still, Jorg’s final goodbye was repeating itself over and over in Jag’s mind.

“I’ll see you in the next life, Jag,” he had said. “Just take your time getting there.”

While Jag doubted Bregen could predict the future, Jorg’s tone had been ominous and unsettling. He could only hope it wasn’t an omen of some sort.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, pulled his gloves on tight, and double-checked the power packs in his blasters. He finally turned his gaze away from the stars and began to walk toward a recently landed Ghtroc 580 freighter.

The ship’s crew—a Twi’lek and an Orfite—were too occupied with unloading the ship’s cargo to notice him. His left hand dropped to his hip holster while a vibroblade slid from his sleeve into his right palm.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Jag said politely. The Twi’lek jumped slightly, clearly caught off guard, while the Orfite scowled at Jag. “Er, and ladies.”

The Orfite smiled—at least as well as one could—before Jag continued.

“Impressive ship you’ve got.”

The Twi’lek shrugged. “She’s alright. Better than nothing.”

Jag nodded as he pretended to inspect the hull, his hands still concealed inside his cloak.

“How much?”

The two crewmembers exchanged glances.

“She’s not for sale.” The Orfite as she dropped the crate she had been holding and crossed her arms.

“Oh.” Jag smiled as his hands whipped forward and revealed the hidden weaponry. “I think it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends "PART II: Separate Ways." The next entry will return us to Jag's ongoing adventures in the "present" (16 ABY).


	9. Part III

* * *

**Part III: Old Friends**

_16 A.B.Y. – Four Months After the Telnor Job_

* * *

 

This was certainly not his first trip to Axxila. Although he did not consider all of his visits to the crime-ridden world pleasant, Jag had found a certain sentimental spot for Axxila in his heart. Half of his arsenal had come from shops scattered throughout the planet’s numerous cities. Unfortunately, half his scars had come from altercations suffered in the equally numerous cantinas located across the planet.

Acquiring weaponry and upgrading the _Spartus’_ systems became considerably easier once he acquired his Mandalorian armor—thanks to the reputation it carried—but it during the years prior, Jag had beaten several people within inches of their lives. He also had the favor returned more times than he cared to count. Intense and specialized Imperial combat training only served him so well. He had quickly discovered that even a former commando had limits in alcohol-induced brawls.

On this particular visit, he found himself in a familiar and comfortable location: his feet propped up on a table, his rifle in a state of disassembly as he cleaned its various components, and the breeze of the room’s cooling unit filling his nostrils with some damp, unnatural scent.

Perhaps it wasn’t _completely_ comfortable after all.

Jag lifted the mug that had been keeping him company for the better part of the last hour to his lips and took a long sip. He smiled as he savored the smooth, malted notes of the rare Corellian ale.

“This stuff alone is worth the trip, Mech.” The amber liquid foamed a bit as he took another sip. “I still don’t understand why it’s so hard to find.”

“The Corellians’ like their stuff with a bit more bite. And since every self-proclaimed ‘ale connoisseur’ between here and Core likes to pretend they’re part Corellian, there’s not much of a market for the smoother brews.”

Jag shrugged and continued to consume the ale. “More for us.”

He didn’t indulge in his vices with the frequency he had during his younger days, but there were certainly times when he still felt excessive intake was…necessary.

The Mechanic, or Mech—Jag never actually learned the man’s real name—had been working for the better part of three hours on Jag’s armor. After his work in Coronet, he decided it was time to upgrade the suit and replace the faulty climate control device. While the body glove he wore under the armor and the armor itself mostly kept him atmospherically sealed, he could not operate in a vacuum and it did little to relieve him of the humidity of certain locales, which made some of his hunts absolutely miserable endeavors.

The armor was laid out across several workbenches, surrounded by an assortment of tools, soldering equipment, coolant, wiring, and a myriad of other components Jag had never seen before.

“Man, I love this stuff,” Mech said as he guided his welding laser along the inner edge of the armor’s chest plate. “Absolutely incredible.”

Jag took another sip of his drink. “What stuff?”

Still guiding the laser along the armor like a skilled surgeon guiding a scalpel, Mech glanced at Jag. He was wearing thick black welding goggles over his usual pair of glasses, but he grinned broadly.

“ _Beskar_ , my friend. Nothing else like it.”

“I certainly can’t complain. Just wish the cooling system worked a bit better.”

Mech meticulously guided the laser along the microwiring he had laid into the chest plate’s underside. “That’s one of the problems this little operation will fix. I’ve also added a few new toys you’re going to like.”

He shut down the laser and removed his goggles, then lifted the chest plate off the workbench and turned it towards Jag. “Now, traditionally, these suits are atmospherically sealed. I know yours is _supposed_ to be, but she’s got a few deficiencies.

“I’ve had to upgrade a couple sets of armor in my day, but I’ve never had to perform an overhaul on the environmental systems quite like this. I’m going to have to weld some durasteel patches to a few areas and replace the sealing mechanisms on each piece of armor. I’m also installing an additional piece to seal the suit at the waste.”

“What about my gauntlets?”

“Ah, yes.” Mech’s thick mustache curled up with the rest of his smile. “I removed the mini-rocket launcher and flamethrower, and—”

“You did _what?_ ”

Mech raised his eyebrows and stared at Jag over the rim of his thick glasses. Jag sighed and motioned for him to continue.

“I swapped them out with a couple unique contraptions that I think you’ll find quite useful in a tight situation.”

Jag nodded. “I’ll take your word for it, Mech. You’ve always taken care of your end. Just as long as you get things squared away with the environmental controls, I’m happy.”

“You mean you _didn’t_ come here just for the company?”

“Of course not.” Jag smiled as he raised his glass as a toast. “I came for the ale.”

Mech chuckled as he set the chest plate back on the workbench. “This is going to take a while, you know.”

Jag finished what was left in his mug and started to stand up to refill it, but fell back into his chair as the consequences of his indulgence took effect. His eyes widened a bit as he looked around the room, trying to shrug off the slight blur that started to cloud the edge of his vision.

“Wow.”

Mech grinned at him before turning back to his work. “Tried to tell you it’s strong. You young punks never want to listen to us old timers.”

Jag rubbed his eyes for a moment, shook his head a few times, and tried to pull himself to his feet once again. Using various pieces of furniture for support, he worked his way to the large sink against the far wall. After splashing some cold water on his face, he started digging through a larger cooler for another bottle of ale.

“Dammit, Girran, you planning on paying for any of that? You’re drinking me dry.”

Jag grinned as he popped the lid off the bottle and took a sip. He poured the rest into his mug and returned to his seat.

While Jag sat in relative silence, he let his thoughts wander against the backdrop of the soft whirrs of Mech’s tools. He gently ran a finger back and forth along part of the scar that cut across his brow, nose, and cheek, and eventually nodded off.

***

After what seemed like several hours, Jag snapped awake and his hand dropped to his holstered blaster. He looked to the workbench where Mech had been standing when he fell asleep, and instead of seeing the older man with disheveled, graying hair still hard at work, he saw nothing—save for his partially assembled suit of armor.

Jag cocked an eyebrow in confusion as he started to scan the room, looking for a clue as to where Mech had gone, when he jolted in his seat and drew his blaster, aiming it at the man sitting in a dark corner of the room with a blaster rifle trained at Jag’s chest.

“Mech?”

Jag kept his blaster level, trying to not to provoke whoever was holding the rifle.

The man stood up and walked towards Jag, the rifled still raised and his finger on the trigger. As he passed under a lamp, Jag saw that it was indeed Mech, but he wore a look that blended concern, confusion, and suspicion.

“Mech, you alright?”

He nodded and stood still, yet he did not lower the blaster’s nozzle.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”

Jag nodded.

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk _a lot_ in your sleep?”

Jag shifted a bit in his seat. “I have…nightmares.”

“Nightmares. Right. Yeah, I’d say so.” Mech finally started to lower the blaster but he kept his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “By the way, I wouldn’t recommend getting married anytime soon. In fact, I wouldn’t recommend courting anyone, either. I have a feeling that anyone sleeping next to you would eventually end up dead.”

Judging by the dents in the table next to Jag’s chair that had mysteriously appeared since he had fallen asleep, Mech may have been on to something. Jag studied them for a moment then sighed with mild exasperation. He knew from reviewing the _Spartus’_ security holos that whatever unholy demons lay dormant and repressed in his subconscious occasionally seized control while he slept, but fortunately there wasn’t much for him to damage in the _Spartus_ ’ cabin.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mech, I’m not exactly beating women off of me. I wouldn’t worry about me getting settled down.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“And as for my…behavior a few minutes ago, sorry. Not much I can do about it. When you have a past like mine…” Jag trailed off as his eyes went distant. He caught himself starting to drift and snapped his eyes back to Mech, who was still studying him curiously. “When you have a past like mine, there is no such thing as ‘restful’ sleep.”

“You know they’ve got stuff out there to fix that kind of thing, right?”

Jag shook his head. “No thanks. I tried that stuff when the nightmares first started. One of two things happened: I’d sleep for about a day and a half, or the dreams would worsen and I’d get hit with these occasional hallucinations.” He shuddered as he remembered some of the horrors his mind had conjured up. “I’d rather deal with the nightmares.”

Mech shrugged. “Your call, pal.” He grinned sheepishly. “Personally, I’d take the drugs.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Jag stood up and ran his fingers along the dents in the metal table then clenched his hands into fists and flexed his fingers several times to check for any damaged bones. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and he didn’t spot any bruising on the skin. “My suit finished?”

“Yes, sir. The software for the environmental controls is ready for complete integration with the HUD, but ArDee’s refusing to install anything until he gets clearance. Fortunately for you, not even I could slice through his safeguards.”

“Good to hear. I’ll get him started on it once I’m off-planet. I’m assuming the sealing equipment is set to go, too?”

“Yep. Ran the usual tests along with a couple of other custom programs I designed myself. You might as well be putting on a brand-new suit,” Mech bragged.

“Good. I love the way those smell.”

Mech smiled and ducked into one of the connecting rooms. Jag pulled the upgraded torso piece over his head and secured the gauntlets, which he gave a thorough inspection. After playing with Mech’s enhancements for a moment, he grinned.

“You were right. These will come in _very_ useful.”

Jag inhaled and exhaled slowly as a sense of calm washed over him. He hated not wearing the armor. Putting it back on was like reattaching a part of his soul. At times, the suit was certainly impractical or too recognizable, and he would have to leave it behind, which always left him feeling almost crippled.

He had just started strapping on the leg plates when Mech returned with a datapad.

“You’re going to love this,” he said as he handed Jag the datapad. Its screen displayed a list of headlines all reporting the same thing: overnight, the Senate had voted to lift its restrictions on state-hired bounty hunters.

Jag frowned at Mech. “What’s this?”

“Pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think? And cheer up. I thought you’d be happy to hear the news.”

“Oh, I’m happy, alright,” Jag countered. “Just a little irritated—and suspicious. First, I almost get killed extracting some thug killer who somehow managed to dodge CorSec for half a year for that yerti-rat of a Corellian. Couple months later, I hand-deliver the corpse of some mid-level art thief to a Kuati lieutenant, who’s a step below Blaise on my list of people least favorite people.

“This art thief was just like Telnor. Managed to avoid Kuat’s local boys long enough for them to pay someone else to take care of him. I had to drag him out of his ship and dump him on the doorstep of that Kuati lieutenant. Oh, and I almost got killed each time by overzealous local authorities.

“Sure, the pay was great, and you know how much I love taking down idiots—especially the guilty ones. Almost cleared a million credits between the two. But the price was inflated. Both of those planets got credits to blow, less-than-motivated planetary enforcement, and two marginally competent criminals. And now that I’ve shown my face—well, sort of—in two _very_ public systems, the ban is suddenly lifted.”

He stared into the visor of the helmet he held in his heads and shook his head after a moment of contemplation. “I don’t know, Mech. I’m not _that_ narcissistic, but this all seems too convenient.”

When Mech didn’t answer, Jag raised his eyebrows expectantly at him. “I’m all ears if you know something I don’t. Or if you’ve got another theory…”

Mech shrugged. “Suggesting there’s some kind of interplanetary conspiracy involving the Senate to drag you out of whatever shadows you like to play in would be a whole new level of paranoia. And for you, that’s saying something.”

Jag grunted in agreement as he pulled his helmet on and heard the whistle of air signaling a successful airtight seal. He activated the external microphone with a blink of his eye.

“It’s not the Senate I’m worried about. Those fools will vote for damn near anything if someone convinces them they can gain something from it. Supporting a measure allegedly drafted to increase the apprehension and prosecution of mercenaries and outlaws would look absolutely beautiful on any Senator’s voting record.” He tightened his gloves and flexed his fingers. “Knowing Blaise and Campellun—”

“Campellun?”

“Yeah, the Kuati lieutenant. He’s another one of the fine beings waiting in line for a chance to cut my throat. It’s just…I don’t know, Mech. I can’t quite place it. But something’s off. In a matter of months, I went on hunts funded by two guys who would love to see me dead. I don’t like coincidences, and that’s a pretty big one.”

“This Blaise and uh, Campellun—what do they have against you, aside from not caring for your oh-so-endearing charm?” Mech asked.

Jag took his time answering. He felt his face harden as memories of his time with _Beskade_ flashed through his mind.

“We have…history,” he finally said. “The kind of history that guys like that don’t just forget about.”

“Well,” Mech said slowly, “maybe you’re on to something.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I just don’t get their angle. They had ample opportunities to blast me out of existence on several occasions, yet here I am.”

Mech shrugged. “Could be this is just their way of keeping tabs.”

“Doubtful, but I suppose it’s possible. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve crossed paths with Blaise since I left him for dead at Corulag.” Jag shook his head as he considered the possibility further. “I still don’t like it.”

“What exactly do you mean, ‘left him for dead?’”

“Pretty straightforward, isn’t it? Things between us went south—and quick.” When Mech didn’t respond, Jag sighed and mentally rolled his eyes. “Short or long version?”

“It’s not like I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Jag spent the next ten minutes explaining how he and Blaise had met as recruits for the Scimitar program, detailed some of their missions and the unit’s betrayal, then went on to discuss how they became glorified pirates and later tried to kill each other. He included the part about him and Bregen parting ways on Axxila, which was what led to Jag finding The Mechanic’s shop in the first place.

And he certainly noticed the way Mech’s eyes flashed, just barely, when he mentioned Bregen by name.

When he finished, The Mechanic didn’t say anything for several moments. Instead, he stared at the duracrete floor as though he would find the answers to life’s mysteries scrawled upon it.

“Quite the story.”

“I suppose you could say that. It’s not exactly one I like telling.”

“This might lift your spirits,” Mech said as he reached for another datapad. “It would appear the New Republic is taking full advantage of their newly rescinded restrictions.” He gave Jag a mildly disgusted look. “Politicians, eh?”

As Jag read—and reread—the bounty posting summary on the datapad, he felt a chill run up his spine as a sense of uneasiness began to grip his insides.

“From the reports the New Republic is putting out, it sounds like Imperial harassment along the Hydian. The Corporate Sector has been talking the ear off of every Senator who has an interest in so much as a parsec of space along the shipping lanes from the Core to the Rim.

“Looks like these guys are real heavy hitters. Very organized. Granted, it’s not like Star Destroyers are popping out of hyperspace, but they _do_ have some frigates that are packing some serious firepower.”

Mech pulled out a second, larger datapad that was in the process of decrypting a file. Jag cocked an eyebrow as Mech handed it to him, then widened his eyes in shock as the scrambled display coalesced into a Navy intelligence report bearing both the Classified and Priority designations.

_How does he find this stuff?_

“Don’t ask.”

Jag grinned. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

He turned the datapad towards Mech and brought up a tactical diagram of how one of the pirates’ raids developed. “You can see why they’re pegging the Imperials for this.” He pointed to the two frigates then traced the paths of the starfighters. “Classic containment maneuver, textbook fighter intercept…blast, even the opening salvo sequence match Imperial search and seizure SOPs.”

“Those frigates _do_ have Imperial markings,” Mech pointed out, but Jag shook his head in disagreement.

“Old markings. Look at the designation on those things. That fleet hasn’t existed for over ten years, and the Navy knows it. The report practically says as much. Assuming the paper pushers in Navy Intelligence are as corrupt as I think they are, the only reason this report suggests it may be the Imperials is to bait the Fleet admirals into drawing out the Imperials so that they can cripple whatever military the Imps have left.”

Jag set his jaw and stared at the diagram. “These aren’t Imperials—at least not anymore.”

He played some of the holos attached to the report that had been pulled from the logs of ships lucky enough to escape the pirates. The precision with which the attacks were executed seemed all too familiar. There was not a doubt in his mind that these pirates were ex-Imperial.

“That named you mentioned earlier—what was it?”

Jag’s brow creased. “What one? Campellun?”

“No, ‘Bree’ something. Briggon?”

“Bregen. What about him?”

Mech glanced around the room nervously as if he expected to spot someone eavesdropping in the corner. “I’ve heard that name before.”

Jag felt some of the blood drain from his face. “When?”

“Not too long ago. A week, maybe less. Some of my ears on the street passed it along. Apparently this Bregen of yours has drawn quite the price.”

Jag’s eyes narrowed as he tried to crush his growing apprehension. “Bregen’s dead.”

“That’s not what I’m being told.”

“Trillions upon trillions of people in this galaxy. Could be anyone.” Jag did his best to keep his breathing steady.

“Sure it could. I suppose there could be a lot of _Jorg_ Bregen’s who run underground gambling rings along the Spine and have a reputation for a quick right hook and an even quicker trigger finger.”

Jag crossed his arms and stared at Mech. He knew better than to think the old man would be intimidated by him, but he put on the act regardless.

“I don’t remember telling you his first name,” Jag said, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“That’s because you didn’t. And don’t you even start with that.” Mech pointed his finger at Jag. “You know what kind of resources I have. You think I’d waste your time with unconfirmed drivel?”

“No,” Jag admitted. “I just find it odd that, in light of recent events, someone has put out a price on old partner of mine who I thought had been dead for two years.”

He studied Mech closely. He enhanced the magnification of his visor and watched for changes in pupil dilation. ArDee loaded a small thermal-vision outline of Mech’s body in the upper left corner of his HUD, which showed a small rise in body temperature, but nothing overly indicative of deceit.

“I’m not in the mood to be kriffed about, Mech,” Jag said between clenched teeth.

“And I’m not in the mood to kriff with anyone right now. This is real, Jag. If I had known you had some kind of history with this guy, I would have been in contact immediately.”

“I’ll believe it’s real when I see Jorg standing in front of me. You got any leads on where he might be?”

“Terminus.”

Jag groaned. “Wonderful.”

“Thought you might react that way.”

“If this turns out to be a bunch of bantha barf…” Jag warned.

“I know, I know.” Mech rolled his eyes dramatically and held up his hands in mock defense. “You’ll rip my throat out.”

“Yeah.” Jag chuckled, but couldn’t help noticing the odd tone in Mech’s voice. “Something like that.”

He set about collecting whatever personal effects he had brought with him, returned his blasters to their holsters, and attached his rifle to his back plate. Once ArDee completed one last battery of diagnostics on the suit, Jag turned to Mech and extended his hand.

“Thanks.” The Mechanic accepted his offering and gave it a firm shake. “And I’m sorry I got a little irritated.”

Mech waved dismissively. “Nothing to apologize for. I would’ve done the same thing.” He handed Jag a datapad. “This is everything I’ve got on Bregen. Doubt it will be much help once you get to Terminus, but it’s better than nothing.”

Jag nodded, but again noticed the odd tone in Mech’s voice. This time, it was paired with a somewhat distant expression. He cocked his head a bit and studied the man. When Mech didn’t offer an explanation, Jag shrugged it off and started for the door. As he reached the access panel, he looked back over his shoulder at Mech, who stared distantly at the floor.

“Take care of yourself, old timer.”

Mech raised his eyes and gave Jag a chilling stare. “I’ll try.”


	10. Chapter 10

The Mechanic watched as the armor-clad bounty hunter slipped out of the shop through its concealed entrance. The feelings of resignation and hopelessness that had overwhelmed him just moments ago remained so powerful that he almost found it difficult to breathe.

“Be careful, kid,” he whispered to himself.

Judging by the snickering he heard from behind him, he hadn’t said it quietly enough.

“Caution won’t save your friend.” Mech cringed as the sound of boots on duracrete drew closer. “And, thanks to you, _nothing_ will.”

Mech exhaled slowly, and with that breath, so went his dignity. He had lied to a man he considered a friend—at least the closest thing to a friend his life allowed—and in all likelihood, sent that man to his death. He had violated one of his rules of survival; he let himself get close to someone. Sure enough, breaking that rule had been his undoing.

“I didn’t think you were going to hold it together,” the voice said with the same tone of arrogance as before. “But I’m impressed.”

Mech kept his eyes on the shop’s floor and tried to control the shame that was beginning to overwhelm him. He claimed he had heard of this Bregen before—which he had, just not through his web of contacts as he had told Jag.

“What will become of Jiinessa?” Mech heard the click of a blaster’s activation switch, and turned to face the man holding it.

The man wore a dark hooded cloak that was reminiscent of those Mech had seen the Jedi wear many years ago. Still, Mech could make out certain facial features, including a right eye patch and a nasty scar that stretched from the right corner of the mouth toward the ear and disappeared beneath the hood’s shadow. The cloak also did nothing to hide the man’s broad shoulders or general militaristic bearing.

“She’s been taken care of.”

The sense of dread kept growing inside Mech. “‘Taken care of?’ What’s that supposed to mean? We agreed that she wouldn’t be harmed and that she and I would be left alone!” The dread, along with the assortment of other emotions swirling within him, quickly brought him to the edge of nausea.

The man just sneered, making the visible part of the scar even more gruesome.

“I think you know _exactly_ what I mean.”

This time, the emotion that erupted inside Mech was anger—white hot, ferocious anger. He started to lunge at the man, his right hand reaching for the concealed vibroblade in his tunic. But his momentum came to a sudden stop, and when he opened his mouth to scream, he found no air to push from his lungs. The scent of burned flesh filled his nostrils, and as he caught sight of the few wisps of smoke rising from the wound, the nausea intensified.

The Mechanic dropped to his knees, clutching at the burned crater in the center of his chest. His eyes began to water as the acrid fumes snaked their way into his sinuses, but the tears that started rolling down his cheeks weren’t a reaction to the smell.

He had heard the old tale that while death prepared to snatch life away from its victims, those on the brink would see their lives flash before their eyes. As far as Mech could tell, that tale was a lie. He saw nothing of his life, only the face of the beautiful dark-haired Jiinessa, a woman he had met only a year earlier.

Her pale skin with its slight blemishes seemed almost real enough to touch, but as the pain of the blaster wound intensified and his vision blurred, so did the image of Jiinessa. He had no feeling left in his extremities, and he fought to find some inner peace, one last time.

The afterlife was never something Mech had given much thought. Like most sentient beings in the galaxy, he had heard of the Force—he had even been fortunate enough to see its masters at work once or twice in his life. Perhaps after death, he would pass into that mysterious energy field’s true domain.

As the clicking of boot heels came to a stop next to Mech, he felt his body start to fall towards the floor. The world seemed to slow to a stop, but he refused to let go of the image of Jiinessa. If what he had been told about her fate was true, he would see her soon—assuming there really was some sort of afterlife.

His eyelids grew heavy and he found himself unable to keep them from closing. His breathing became so labored he feared he had just drawn his last breath. Still, he held onto the image of his wife. Mech smiled weakly, knowing her face would be the last thing his mind would see.

Finally, he was at peace.

*** 

The cloaked man studied the corpse of the man formerly known only as “The Mechanic” for a moment, then fired two more shots into the body’s back. After a quick survey of the shop, he grabbed the few items he deemed worthwhile and removed any evidence of his presence.

His mission had ended more successfully than he had originally thought possible. Not only had he sent that fool Girran to the far reaches of the galaxy chasing a ghost, but he had managed to keep the bounty hunter mostly oblivious to the machinations which all but guaranteed his ruin.

Of course, Girran had figured out _some_ of it. The man was a former Imperial commando and an exceptional bounty hunter. Both professions demanded a certain level of intelligence and intuition. But the traitor was still badly outmatched, and his days were numbered.


	11. Part IV

* * *

**Part IV: Strange Encounters**

___8 A.B.Y. – Eight Years Ago_

* * *

It was probably just an illusion, but space seemed _darker_ in the Unknown Regions. Jag had passed through this sector of space before, though not for any significant amount of time. He found being so far away from what he and the rest of the known galaxy considered “civilized space” remarkably unnerving.

Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown that troubled him. It could have been the whispered rumors he had heard about the strange ships and even stranger species that emerged from regions like this. Regardless of the true reason he found himself sporadically breaking into fits of sweating, Jag had made a point of running constant sensor sweeps in between jumps to lightspeed.

He had spent most of the last five months mapping a route into the Unknown Regions from Reecee. A Dimean had offered the navigation job with a hefty price tag: two hundred thousand credits with seventy-five thousand upfront. Given his recent struggles in the bounty hunting business, Jag jumped at the opportunity to make some money. Even if he decided to duck out on the job, he would still have the seventy-five thousand.

The job did not come without risk. In addition to the natural dangers of mapping a hyperspace route in uncharted space, several pirate outfits were rumored to operate in the region, and the _Nomadin_ was hardly the ideal vessel for any kind of fight. The Ghtroc 720 freighter was quick enough, despite its appearance, but the armaments left something to be desired.

During his travels, Jag encountered several systems, none of which showed any signs of colonization. Within those systems, he discovered eight planets and numerous moons suitable to sentient life should civilization—or crime syndicate—ever push into that region of space. A major asteroid field in the third system he found appeared to contain substantial deposits of hfredium. If he sold the asteroid field’s location to any of the prominent mining operations in the Core, he could make a small fortune.

Despite the lack of contact with any sentient beings, Jag wasn’t exactly _alone_ on the _Nomadin_. The first thing he did after purchasing the ship was load ArDee’s programming into the computer. After two days of familiarizing himself with the ship, ArDee had managed to increase engine output by nine percent and reduce fuel consumption by twelve percent.

To the right of the control yoke was an oversized monitor displaying the galactic map along with known major hyperspace routes. Jag tapped a few commands and enlarged the portion of space he had been scouting.

“ArDee, insert all navigational data thus far into the map.”

“Yes sir,” the accented voice replied.

After an alert chimed warning that the ship would return to realspace in one minute, Jag glanced at the monitor to check his progress. He nearly fell out of his seat when he saw how far into the Unknown Regions he had traveled.

“ArDee, is this correct?”

“If you mean to insinuate that I have made an error, I assure you sir, all of my programming is operating at peak proficiency.”

“I’m…you’re _sure_?”

“Sir, thanks to my creator’s programming genius, I possess navigational abilities that surpass virtually all but the most sophisticated computers. Perhaps a bit more trust in my capabilities would serve you well.”

Jag shook his head and prepared to drop out of hyperspace. He watched one of the monitors for the countdown, and eased the lever for the hyperdrive forward as the digits reached zero. As the hyperspace tunnel gave way to billions of distant stars, the canopy’s tint faded to reveal a massive, bright green gas giant with what appeared to be several Coruscant-sized moons in orbit. If these celestial bodies were actually moons in the traditional sense, they were by far the largest he had ever seen.

He raised an eyebrow as he studied the data pouring in on the planet and its moons. ArDee’s preliminary long-distance scans suggested more planets in the system, but due to the distance, the scans were unable to provide anything conclusive. It would take time, but Jag would have to do sweeps of each planet. Perhaps he would even name a few.

Jag dropped the _Nomadin_ into high orbit around the gas giant and set about sorting through the newly acquired data while ArDee ran full sensor sweeps on the moons as they passed by. He was reviewing a new batch of reports on one of the moons when his concentration was jolted by the activation of a ship-wide siren.

He clamped his hands over his ears to drown out the deafening blaring of the siren and winced when the sound continued to pound away at his ear drums.

“Shut that kriffing thing off!”

ArDee responded by simply decreasing the volume of the siren, but its shrieking continued to echo throughout the cabin and the access corridors beyond.

“I said, _shut_ …”

Jag froze after glancing out the canopy. The chill that ran up his spine was so cold he could have sworn his blood had literally turned to ice. His mouth went dry and his jaw hung open as his gaze remained locked on what lay beyond the canopy.

Two large cruisers with glistening silver hulls sat in the distance, their bows aimed directly at the _Nomadin_. Jag switched one of the canopy’s digital panes to “magnify” to get a closer look. From what he could see, they were slightly larger than a Corellian gunship, and their appearance was far more menacing. Pairs of something that resembled turbolasers hung from the underside of the bows, and dark markings lined the bow.

“Talk to me, ArDee!” Jag demanded as he bounced from the sensor station to the pilot seat to the comm station.

“Inconclusive results, sir.”

“ _Inconclusive?_ We’ve got two battle cruisers sitting a few thousand kilometers away and the best you can do is _inconclusive?_ ”

“They are apparently capable of limiting my effectiveness, sir. All attempts to scan the vessels have failed. I was able to obtain only basic readings.”

Jag tried to clamp down his growing sense of panic. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got. Where in the blazes did they come from?”

“They came out of lightspeed seconds before I activated the alarm. Long distance scans revealed a hyperspace disturbance, though that data was received far too late for me to issue the standard warning.”

“You don’t say.”

Jag continued to scramble around the cabin, flipping switches and checking various monitors, cursing through all of it. Once the details of the unfamiliar cruisers loaded on a monitor at the sensor screen, he sat down for a moment to scan the information. What he saw was hardly reassuring.

His original estimation was quite incorrect; the cruisers were much larger than a Corellian gunship. The scans suggested an estimated length of just over five hundred meters. Visual data revealed several protrusions on the hull that were somewhat reminiscent of turbolaser blisters on the old Dreadnaughts, though these were certainly unique.

And there were a lot of protrusions.

Jag jumped back into the pilot’s seat, raised the deflector shields, and warmed the topside laser cannon. It was only a few seconds later that he regretted that decision.

A blue bolt of energy shot forward from the left cruiser’s underside cannons. Every muscle in Jag’s body tightened as he watched it slice through space towards the _Nomadin’s_ hull, his sudden paralysis preventing him from piloting the ship. As the bolt drew even closer, beads of sweat started to pour down Jag’s face. He managed to strap in his crash webbing just before the bolt struck the hull and braced for impact.

But the bolt went wide.

Still partially frozen in fear, Jag glanced around in confusion.

“ArDee, status!”

“All systems are normal, sir. Deflector shields remain fully functional.”

Jag snapped out of his daze and threw the sublight engines to full power. He ran the ship through a series of evasive maneuvers as he tried to plot a jump to lightspeed. Unfortunately, he was in the middle of nowhere as far as standard navigation was concerned, and plotting a jump would take time—time he didn’t have.

He did his best to control the ship with one hand while the other danced across one of the screens in an effort to divert more power to the shields. With the engines operating at maximum capacity, the shield generator taxed, and a navicomputer that was about to fry its circuits looking for a safe hyperspace route, Jag half expected the ship to implode.

Then an even, controlled voice broadcasted throughout the ship.

“Unidentified ship: cease operations at once and deactivate your weapons. You _will not_ be warned again.”

Jag brought the _Nomadin_ around to face the cruisers. Where previously there were only two vessels, there were now ten: the two cruisers, something that looked a shuttle, and seven starfighters.

“Uh, ArDee?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Deactivate _everything_.” Jag wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “And tidy up a bit. We’re going to have company.”

***

The next thirty minutes felt like thirty days. Instead of boarding the _Nomadin_ , which Jag had fully expected the pirates to do, the starfighters and shuttle simply dropped into an escort position with the shuttle on Jag’s port side and the starfighters arranged in a defensive diamond formation.

Halfway to the cruiser that had fired the single shot of—something—it occurred to Jag that he may not be dealing with pirates. He had developed an eye for most things militaristic during his time with Scimitar, and the style and efficiency with which the starfighters maneuvered suggested the pilots’ training was far more advanced than that of the typical pirate or mercenary.

Then again, _he_ was a mercenary…

There was also the issue of the warning shot the cruiser had fired. It was _blue_. He had been involved in numerous battles, watched hours of training holos, and had yet to come across any technology that resembled what almost blasted the _Nomadin_ into an atom cloud.

As the distance between his ship and the cruisers continued to close, Jag could see the hull in greater detail. The protrusions certainly resembled the weapons blisters of the original Rendili Dreadnaughts, but were smaller in size and didn’t conceal the massive barrels of the turbolasers within quite as well. However, arranged around each blister were receded gun emplacements that Jag assumed were point-defense cannons. Similar receded constructions dotted the length of the hull, with several batteries built around the hangar on the starboard side.

It was, to say the least, one of the more intimidating gunships he had ever seen. If these were pirates, they were incredibly well funded and had access to munitions suppliers that would rival some of those within the New Republic. The markings on the hall were also far more complex than he first thought; the primary design on the bow seemed to be a seal of some sort. While he was far from fluent in many of the galaxy’s languages, he was well versed in enough of them, and nothing on the ship’s hull had a hint of familiarity about it.

“ArDee, you got anything on these two piles of junk yet?” He rechecked the sensor reports to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

“Negative, sir. I have cross-referenced the design, emissions profile, weaponry, and markings against all known databases. No results for any of my queries.”

“Wonderful.”

The _Nomadin_ was practically in the hangar of the cruiser by this point, and most of its escort had disappeared. As his ship came to a rest on the deck of the hangar, Jag went about his usual departure procedure: shutdown of the ship’s primary systems, double-checked the power packs in his blasters—then thought better of it and returned them to their racks—and inserted the ear chip he used to communicate with ArDee.

“Keep running your scans, and if I need to make a run for it, try to figure out the best way back.”

“I will do my best, sir. As I’ve told you, bypassing the ship’s encryption is proving far more difficult than I initially anticipated.”

“You’ll be fine. After all, you’ve got that superior programming, remember? Keep me updated.”

“Of course, sir. And do be careful; I fear my company would be wasted on these mysterious captors.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Jag hit the control to lower the ramp and took a deep breath. He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected to greet him as he emerged from his ship, but the being that stood on the hangar deck waiting for him certainly was not it.

The blue skin and glowing red eyes shocked him the most, but almost equally shocking was the near-humanness of its appearance. The being was dressed in a crisp black uniform and carried a sidearm that made Jag pause. The shine of the boots was immaculate, and the entire outfit made Jag’s efficient but worn garments look even more ragged than normal.

At least he had the durasteel chest and right shoulder armor plate to add some flare.

Unsure of the acceptable etiquette among these people, Jag just stood still. He studied the blue-skinned being in front of him, who did the same in return. Eventually the being broke the silence.

“Greetings, alien,” it said with a bow of the head. Surprisingly enough, it spoke Basic, and did so a rich, nobleman’s accent. “I am Lieutenant Dens’amo’luldar of the Chiss Expansionary Fleet, Executive Officer of the _Mirtan’hu_.” The being’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You will state your intentions for violating Chiss territory.”

Jag swallowed and quickly ran through one of the many calming techniques he had learned years ago.

“I am Jag Girran, captain of the _Nomadin_ ,” he said evenly, trying to match the composure with which the lieutenant had spoken. “My intentions are innocent and our meeting a coincidence. I am in this region of space to fulfill a surveying contract. Nothing more.”

“Hm.” Dens’amo’luldar raised an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen.”

He turned and gestured toward the blast doors across the hangar where four more blue-skinned, black uniformed humanoids had appeared. All four carried the same sidearm as the lieutenant. Jag nodded to the lieutenant and started toward the blast doors while keeping an eye on the four other humanoids.

Jag’s greeting party fell in to an escort formation while the lieutenant walked next to him in silence as they made their way through the ship. Jag tried to take in as much detail as possible. The corridors were a gray color similar to the other warships he had spent time on, but the design of the corridors was different than a typical Imperial vessel, though still familiar.

As they reached the doors for what he assumed to be the command bridge, Lieutenant Dens’amo’luldar said something in a language Jag had never heard, and the escort came to a stop. Jag glanced from one guard to the next, then to the Lieutenant.

“End of the tour?”

 Dens’amo’luldar turned his head and eyed Jag curiously for a moment before looking forward again. “ _Ch’grah_.”

The escort moved forward once again, and the doors to the bridge slid open. Jag’s eyes widened at the sight before him. Multiple command stations occupied the front half of the bridge, though they sat in a pit about two meters below the rest of the deck. However, the arrangement looked nothing like that of an Imperial Star Destroyer’s bridge. It was far less claustrophobic, and had a walkway through the area as opposed to above it.

The section directly in front of Jag resembled that of most bridges. There was a command chair positioned near the end of the walkway that cut through the station pit, and standing next to it with his hands clasped behind his back was an imposing figure dressed in the same uniform as Jag’s escort. Two of the beings from the escort broke off and took up positions at the entrance they had just passed through while the other two stood behind Jag, with the lieutenant at his side.

“Captain Girran, I presume?” the being asked, his glowing red eyes locked with Jag’s.

Surprised that his identity had already been revealed, as none of the five beings he had encountered thus far had uttered a word during their walk to the bridge, Jag hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Correct.”

“I am Commander Cluh’ack’annotru of the Chiss vessel _Mirtan’hu._ You have violated the borders of the Chiss Ascendancy with an armed vessel. State your intentions.”

Jag’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t crossed paths with pirates after all. Instead, he had flown straight into a system belonging to an alien government, one which clearly possessed impressive military technology and had the patience of a drunken Wookiee for unwelcomed visitors.

“As I told your lieutenant, I am on a peaceful expedition through an area of space considered uncharted by my people.” Jag fought to keep his voice as even as possible. “I know nothing of your Ascendancy, and I assure you, if _I_ don’t know about it, the chances of my people possessing any knowledge of it are practically nonexistent.”

“And I equally assure you, Captain Girran, that you are mistaken,” the commander quipped, though Jag didn’t detect any malice in his voice.

“I…could you please elaborate?”

Cluh’ack’annotru walked toward one of the raised walkways along the side of the station pit and gestured for Jag to follow.

“This is not our first encounter with your kind, Captain Girran.” He offered a smiled and tilted his head in curiosity. “Or were you _not_ curious as to how some of us can speak your language?”

Jag’s eyebrow twitched. He actually had not considered that fact, though it was until only minutes ago that he thought he had simply been dealing with pirates.

“The thought hadn’t occurred to me, to be perfectly honest with you. But now that you mention it, yeah. I’m curious.”

Jag looked around at the rest of the bridge’s occupants, who for the most part ignored his presence. Some, though, carefully watched the exchange out of the corner of their eyes. “I’m also curious as to why some of you understand my language yet others don’t.”

“What makes you think they all don’t?”

He nodded to the crewmen who were ignoring him. “Half your crew hasn’t reacted to a word I said.”

“Perhaps they are well trained and understand the concentration their tasks require.”

“Perhaps,” Jag said with a nod. He turned to one of the crewmen still standing near him, and said very matter-of-factly: “I’m going to kill your commander.”

Before Jag could finish, six of the crewmen in the station pit had their sidearms drawn and pointed at Jag’s chest. Lieutenant Dens’amo’luldar and one of the escorts also had their weapons drawn, as did three of the other bridge officers.

Jag looked at Cluh’ack’annotru out of the corner of his eye and smiled.

Cluh’ack’annotru simply cocked an eyebrow and motioned for those with their weapons raised to lower them.

“Lieutenant, escort Captain Girran to Briefing One. We have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I originally wrote these chapters, it was probably eight or nine years ago and long before we got the new canon Thrawn books. We did not yet have any of the Cheunh vocabulary, so I had to go with what I thought their language would sound like. I felt like it would be kind of similar to German or old Germanic tongues, and drew my inspiration from there. Some of the words I came up with are bastardizations of actual German words or stuff I just made up. I've included a glossary to use as a reference for any additional chapters involving the Chiss.
> 
> "Krommeahs" - communications  
> "Tre’tunah" - surrender  
> "Asit’i hi’reindah" - that’s enough  
> "Krie’jah" - warrior  
> "Gehkaghas" - prisoners  
> "V’brepstanen" - understood  
> "Setzahs" - laws  
> "Wismahkeh" - Vigilant (ship name)  
> "Vormyaendor" - Guardian (ship name)  
> "Ch’grah" - proceed (derivative of “Ch'tra” (Go))  
> "Nuchak" - lying bastard


	12. Chapter 12

Commander Cluh’ack’annotru kept Jag waiting only a few minutes. He arrived in Briefing One accompanied by two sentries who remained near the door, their expressions stoic and postures perfect. Jag started to rise from his seat when the commander entered the room, but the gesture was dismissed with a wave of the hand.

“Though I’m flattered by your display of respect, it is hardly necessary, Captain.” Cluh’ack’annotru took a seat and smoothed his uniform. “Please, consider us equals for the time being. It will allow these discussions to be more productive. You may also address me as Hackan, and the lieutenant as Samol. It will simplify things a great deal.

“That being said, permit me to be direct: as I previously stated, this is not the first time we’ve encountered your kind, and unfortunately, those encounters have, for the most part, concluded unfavorably for all parties involved. I hope to put an end to that trend.”

Jag’s expression remained neutral and his hands folded in his lap, and he waited for Hackan to continue.

“However, the Chiss do not wish to cooperate with the Empire. While the majority of my people remain oblivious to your existence, there are those within our society who remember our previous encounters far too well.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Before these discussions progress any further, let me be clear: I _will not_ cooperate with the Empire.”

Jag’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he fought to stifle a laugh.

“I’m sorry, the _Empire_?”

Hackan’s expression remained mostly neutral but he cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Are you not associated with the Empire, Captain?”

“Not too many people are, these days. I’m not sure what kind of resources your people have beyond your borders, but the Empire has been toppled.”

Jag caught an exchange of glances between Hackan and Samol.

“How long ago was this?”

“Three years ago. More or less.” Next to Jag, Samol pulled something resembling a datapad from a pocket and started entering commands. “Resistance movement called the Rebel Alliance defeated them and took over. Restructured the government, took back Coruscant, the whole bit. Now the New Republic is running the show.”

“The _‘New’_ Republic?”

“Yeah. The ‘old’ one was in the process of collapsing when the Empire came to power. I was too young to remember, but from what I’ve read and been told, it was a nasty time to be alive.”

“The term ‘empire’ rarely evokes harmonious feelings,” Hackan said.

“You’ve got a point. Still, I grew up under the Empire’s rule—even served it for a short time.”

“Interesting. I look forward to learning more about your past, Captain, but in the meantime, if you would allow, I’d prefer to refocus our discussion.”

Jag shrugged.

“I’m curious as to how you managed to locate this system. I’m also curious as to your _true_ intent and allegiances.” He paused and gestured to Samol. “You will have to excuse my caution, but I certainly have reason. Lieutenant?”

Samol handed Jag the datapad he had pulled from his pocket. The screen scanned through three different images: an Imperial Star Destroyer, some kind of freighter, and a massive structure that Jag had only heard rumors about—six dreadnaughts arranged around a storage core.

“Are you familiar with these vessels?”

“Two of them—I guess. One’s an Imperial Star Destroyer, the other some kind of stock freighter. I haven’t seen the model before. But the third—I’ve never seen it before, but then again, not many people have. It’s more of a legend than anything.”

“I assure you, it is no legend. It is _Outbound Flight_.” Hackan motioned to Samol, who took back the datapad, and after entering a few commands, returned it to Jag with a new set of images displayed, including the head and shoulders of a stern looking Chiss in a black uniform. “This was Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo. He and his ships were responsible for the Ascendancy’s most significant interaction with your kind. It is because of him and these events that I am able to speak your language.”

“I’m going to assume you’re leaving out a few details for the time being.”

“You are assuming correctly.”

“Fair enough.” Jag nodded towards the datapad. “Would you mind explaining the significance of the other ships?”

Hackan nodded. “The smaller vessel we encountered during a patrol. We attempted to establish contact with the pilot, but he declined to cooperate. He opened fire on one my starfighters and we responded in kind.” The commander paused and sighed quietly. “It was finished quickly. An unfortunate encounter; I would have liked to learn of his origins and intentions.”

Jag continued to study Hackan’s face and was certain he caught a flash of regret.

“The second ship, the one you identified as a ‘Star Destroyer,’ proved to be a far more interesting—and deadly—confrontation.”

He casually waved his hand over a portion of the table and a previously undetectable panel slid back to reveal a set of controls. After tapping several of them, the wall to Jag’s left, opposite the viewports on his right, slid open to reveal a large monitor. Displayed on it was a star chart of some sort—most likely that of Chiss space, Jag presumed. Hackan stood and made his way to the monitor.

“This area here,” he pointed to what must have been the Core-side border of chart, “is where we met the alien warship.” He glanced sideways at Jag. “It _is_ a warship, is it not?”

“Oh,” Jag said with half a grin, “very much so.”

Hackan merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to the monitor.

“As I was saying, we encountered this vessel near the edge of our borders. The ship was traveling alone, and at first seemed willing to cooperate with us. In fact, the ship’s commander had explicit instructions to do so.”

Jag frowned. “Instructions? An _Imperial_ vessel had instructions to cooperate with _you_? I mean—specifically with the _Chiss?_ ”

Hackan nodded. “The orders came from my former commander.”

Jag’s eyes narrowed as suspicion began to creep up his spine.

“You see, Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo, or Grand Admiral Thrawn, as he came to be known in your part of your galaxy, had allied himself with the Empire. My people exiled him for disgracing us—or so they claimed—and did their best to remove the memory of Thrawn from our society.

“It would seem the commander did not do the same. While serving the Empire, he created his own base of operations and set out on a mission to ‘pacify’ the more volatile areas of this region. This Star Destroyer was supposed to bring forth his offer of peace and request for an allegiance. However, the man Thrawn sent was a fool. His attempts to negotiate with us were unsuccessful, and ultimately we were forced to defend ourselves.”

Jag leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “You’ll have to excuse my failure to effectively grasp all of this the first time through.” He paused, then leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him. “For the last several years, there has been a _Chiss_ _Grand Admiral_ flitting about the galaxy, completely unbeknownst to the rest of the New Republic?”

“Yes.”

“And you served under this…”

“Thrawn.”

“Yeah, under this Thrawn?”

“I did, though only for a brief time. Unfortunately, my time with Commander Thrawn was short-lived. He lost his command shortly after the incident with _Outbound Flight_.”

“‘Incident?’”

“Yes, _incident_. As with the origins of my ability to speak your native tongue, I must insist the details of this incident be treated the same.”

Jag sighed. “Alright. Will you be continuing with the history lesson, then?”

Hackan’s face darkened. “I don’t find this a subject particularly worthy of humor, Captain.”

Jag flinched at the unexpected burst of anger. “My apologies, Commander. Please, continue.”

Hackan regarded him for a moment before his face softened. “None required, Captain. I apologize for my lack of patience. But please, try to understand, these encounters are a very serious matters for those serving on this ship and those like it within the Chiss Expansionary Fleet. When they _do_ occur, they have the potential to be lethal—as was the case with this Star Destroyer.”

Jag simply nodded as he put on his best apologetic look.

“The warship appeared in the next system over from the one in which we found you—near the world we call Cantrosa. We encountered it during a routine patrol of the system. It was broadcasting a message to my small group of ships in three languages: Cheunh, Minnisiat, and Sy Bisti. The former two are trade languages in that area of space and would be familiar to a variety of species, including Chiss, but Cheunh…” Hackan trailed off as he smiled pridefully. “Only _Chiss_ know Cheunh.”

“I’m assuming this instantly raised suspicion.”

“You are correct, Captain. Our suspicion was justified when the ship’s commander, a Captain Eguilan, answered our hails in _your_ language. I believe your people refer to it as ‘Basic.’”

Jag’s eyebrow flinched but didn’t answer. He was started to become more than a little uncomfortable with how much Commander Hackan seemed to know about the galaxy beyond the Chiss’ borders.

Undeterred by Jag’s silence, Hackan continued. “We demanded to know how this… _alien_ —” the word seemed to drip with disgust, “knew _our_ language.” He reached back to the controls on the table and tapped a few more commands, which added a capture from a visual hail of Captain Eguilan to the monitor’s screen. Hackan then tapped two points on the monitor and dragged his dragged his finger downward. As he did so, the relevant portion of the star chart magnified.

“Captain Eguilan brought word from Thrawn. He was embarking on a mission of what he called ‘pacification,’ and sought to enlist our assistance, or at least passive cooperation, with his endeavors. In accordance with Chiss military doctrine, I refused to provide assistance in any capacity, and explained my reasoning to Captain Eguilan.

“He was either ordered to not accept refusal, or he thought himself far more powerful—and intelligent—to be denied by a group of aliens.” Hackan turned to Lieutenant Samol with a questioning expression. “What was the word he used for us, Lieutenant?”

“Savage scum, sir.”

“Ah yes, of course.” Hackan’s eyes narrowed and his face darkened again. “Captain Eguilan discovered just how capable the Chiss truly are.”

“So, you attacked him?” Jag asked, almost scoffing. “Because he insulted you?”

Hackan seemed insulted. “Hardly, Captain Girran. Do I strike you as someone willing to sacrifice principle for pride and pettiness?”

Understanding that the question had only one acceptable response, Jag shook his head. “Of course not. I’m sorry for suggesting that.”

“You need not apologize. But to answer your question, no: my ships did not fire upon the alien vessel. Rather, after persistent verbal berating from Captain Eguilan, a starfighter screen launched from the warship and attempted to engage two of my smaller cruisers. They were dispatched fairly efficiently.

“Then the warship opened fire.”

Commander Hackan’s eyes grew distant for a moment before they refocused on Jag. “Captain Eguilan caught one of my ships unprepared. The ship was ripped apart within _seconds_.”

He tapped a command on the table’s panel and the two pictures disappeared. “We responded in kind. All available firepower was focused on the warship. The formation we used, combined with our starfighter attack, overwhelmed the ship’s defenses and we crippled it fairly quickly.”

“You said you crippled it? Does that mean you managed to salvage it?”

“The story has not concluded, Captain,” Hackan said. “We offered Captain Eguilan an opportunity to surrender, of which he wanted no part. He attempted to reengage my ships, at which point his was destroyed.”

“All this over a request for help?”

“Hardly.”

“But you said Captain Eguilan—”

“I am well aware of the reason Captain Eguilan claimed he violated Chiss space. However, Commander Thrawn—or should I say _Grand Admiral_ Thrawn—was no fool. Quite the opposite, in fact. He understood the psyche of those around him and those against him far too well, almost to a level that bordered on the supernatural. He did not send Eguilan here to offer peace and ask for assistance.

“He sent Eguilan here for two reasons: first, to inform the Chiss that he was alive and in command of considerable military assets. Second, to die.”

Jag broke into a coughing fit as he processed the end of Hackan’s answer. “He sent the captain to do _what?_ ”

“Clearly, Eguilan was a flawed individual whose ability to effectively command was lacking, to say the least. I have no doubt that Thrawn knew this and sought to rectify the situation.”

“Thrawn sounds like quite the character.”

Hackan cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed. Quite.”

Jag sat back in his chair and tried to process everything he had been told. After a few moments of silence, he sighed and leaned forward.

“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I don’t work for Thrawn _or_ the Empire—or the New Republic for that matter. I’d gladly tell you what I can about the new government the galaxy’s stuck with, so long as I get some answers to my questions when we’re all done.”

With only the briefest of hesitations and a quick glance at Lieutenant Samol, Hackan nodded. “As you wish, Captain.” He parted his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Please, let us continue.”

***

Jag recounted the galactic history of the last three decades starting with the fall of the Old Republic, which, according to Hackan, occurred shortly after the Chiss’ encounter with _Outbound Flight_. He discussed the Empire’s rise and ultimate defeat at Endor, and as far as Jag could tell, Commander Hackan and Lieutenant Samol were quite unimpressed with the Emperor’s reign and his methods.

“The Empire is gone—at least as a ruling power,” Jag explained. “There is still a mess of warlords hanging around vying for control of the Empire’s remaining assets, but that’s it. The New Republic seized control of the galactic capital and is working toward reversing a couple decades worth of tyranny. Still, the Empire’s got enough warships and manpower at their disposal to be a constant irritant for the New Republic.”

“And Thrawn is still alive,” Hackan added. “I have no doubt that the Empire will again rise from the ashes should he return to lead.”

Jag frowned. “Yeah…I suppose he could still be alive.”

The sly smile that Hackan flashed sent a chill up Jag’s spine. “I assure you, Captain, he is.”

As he tried to shake the unnerving sensation Hackan’s smile had given him, Jag detailed the New Republic’s system of government and offered whatever insights he could on the major figures within the Senate. Hackan seemed confused with the power distribution that the New Republic created.

“How can they possibly hope to maintain order?” he asked. “Surely the architects of such a system understand its inherent flaws.”

Jag shrugged. “I’m not a politician for a reason, but I can’t see how they wouldn’t recognize some of the shortcomings. Still, I suppose it’s better than the autocratic nightmare that was the Empire.”

“Autocracies only fail when the wrong people are in charge, Captain Girran.”

Jag went on to discuss the New Republic’s military assets and capabilities, and emphasized that to his knowledge, the rest of the galaxy remained completely oblivious to the Chiss’ existence.

Using navigational data from the _Spartus_ that the Chiss technicians extracted—Jag had no idea how they managed to bypass ArDee’s security measures—he detailed his expedition thus far and explained how his encounter with the Chiss was purely accidental.

While Commander Hackan eventually seemed willing to believe Jag’s story that he was not a scout for the New Republic or Empire, he did take issue with the amount of geographical data accumulated for some of the worlds Jag had encountered. Hackan explained that the last system Jag passed through had already been scouted by the Chiss, and with preliminary colonization efforts underway, they had no intention of sharing it.

The same went for the current system. The largest of the habitable worlds—the Chiss had named it Aksulunil—was all but fully settled and was protected by a small contingent of the Chiss _Defense_ Fleet, which, Hackan explained, was responsible for protecting existing Chiss assets as opposed to the Expansionary Fleet, which was tasked with border patrol and territorial growth.

Unfortunately for Jag, Commander Hackan was insisting that all information pertaining to those particular systems be wiped from the _Nomadin’s_ memory banks, including the navigational data that led Jag to those worlds. Given that he had spent nearly two and a half months compiling that data, Jag was less than pleased with the decision.

“How am I supposed to get back to my part of the galaxy? It took me _months_ to get out here, and I’m supposed to just turn around and do it all over again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Captain. One of my ships will transport you to the edge of Chiss space and allow you to leave.”

Jag blinked. “That’s it?” He looked back and forth between Hackan and Samol’s expressionless faces. “I’ve answered every question you asked. I’ve done nothing but cooperate—”

“And that cooperation will be rewarded, Captain, I assure you. I understand your hesitancy to trust us, but please try.” Hackan again altered the focus of the star chart, drawing it out so that it displayed most of the western side of the galaxy, and in far greater detail than any chart Jag had previously seen.

He guided his index finger along the western edge of the Core. “Am I correct in assuming your people do not have widespread access to this region of space?”

“That’s correct,” Jag confirmed. “There are numerous anomalies that disrupt hyperdrives and make traveling at lightspeed a very tedious endeavor.”

“I see.” Hackan tapped a small icon along the edge of the monitor and several yellow lines appeared on the chart, some intersecting, others continuing on their own until suddenly terminating. “As you can see, we have no such issues.”

Jag stood and walked to the monitor, his mouth hanging open in amazement. Somehow the Chiss had accomplished that which “known” civilization thought all but impossible for thousands of years. The Unknown Regions was not only inhabited, but it was completely navigable.

Jag could only manage a single word. “How?”

Hackan smiled. “Our technologies are not identical, Captain Girran.”

“Yeah, to say the least.” Jag eyes kept examining the star chart.

“Your reward, Captain,” Hackan said with a genuine smile, “is these charts.”

Jag turned to Hackan, both eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

“Your willingness to provide me—a previously and still mostly unfamiliar military commander—intimate details of your own civilization required great trust on part, and it was certainly appreciated.” Hackan shut down the monitor and returned to his seat, motioning for Jag to do the same. “While my people typically look upon non-Chiss as…inferior, I find some of the species we’ve encountered quite intriguing.”

“I certainly hope humans fall under the latter.”

“Most certainly. I would hardly be willing to share such information were the situation any different.” Hackan nodded to Samol, who gathered the two datapads on the table and stood up. “Lieutenant Samol will collect a team and, with your permission, interface with your ship’s main computer and install the necessary information. However, since you are not here on your own accord, at least not entirely, the information will be encrypted and accessible only by your ship’s computer after a date and time of my choosing.”

Jag felt his excitement deflate. “How is that supposed to help me?”

“First, if you’re discovered in Chiss space within the next year, by me or another member of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet, you will not receive the same hospitality. In fact, you can expect the total opposite. Secondly, I am rarely willing to leave things to chance, and even when I do, I prefer the odds be heavily in my favor.

“By withholding our navigational information for a length of time I deem acceptable, I am taking a calculated risk that you will have found another form of employment—or you’ll be dead.”

“How encouraging.”

“You are a mercenary, Captain Girran. The life expectancy for such employment, even in this region of space, is not considerably impressive,” Hackan said coldly.

Jag’s cheek twitched but he grunted in agreement. “Fair point, Commander. And I accept your terms. But how can you be sure that my ship’s computer will actually release the information?”

Hackan smiled. “Captain, come now. I thought you would have more faith in your own systems. ARD-1, I believe is its designation, has truly fascinated my technicians. They’ve actually started working on replicating portions of the primary programming so that we may study it further. I fully expect it to meet my expectations.”

Jag nodded in resignation. “Guess I better start preparing for my departure.”

“Again, Captain: patience. We won’t be leaving for the edge of our territory for several days. There is still much for you and I to learn from each other.” Hackan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Jag didn’t detect any hint of malice. “Perhaps we can start with your involvement with the Empire, and why you failed to mention it earlier.”


	13. Chapter 13

The discussion about Jag’s career with the Empire essentially came to a halt for two days. Jag was given restricted access to parts of the ship, though he spent most of the time aboard the _Nomadin_. He wasn’t quite ready to trust the Chiss completely, but the Commander was certainly doing his best to earn a small measure of it. Why Hackan had started trusting him at all remained a mystery, one that he hoped to solve before departing Chiss space.

Hackan remained in almost constant contact for most of the two days, inviting Jag to dine with him in the _Mirtan’hu’s_ main mess hall on several occasions. Their conversations focused on the political events of the last fifteen years, pirating in the immediate region, and the ambitions of the New Republic.

Still, Jag found the interaction considerably uncomfortable. There was obvious tension because of how things in Briefing One had concluded as both parties were doing their best to avoid the subject.

Jag found the food exceptional, regardless of how foreign it may be. It certainly bested whatever he had still had left in storage on the _Nomadin_. It was unique yet familiar. Some of the meals had more intense flavor than others, but they all shared a certain spiciness that Jag quite enjoyed. He couldn’t help but wonder how such food would fare in the affluent districts of Coruscant, where exotic dishes were all the rage.

On the morning of the third day after the meeting in Briefing One, Jag supervised the tech crew Samol had selected to handle the data upload to the _Nomadin_. He spent most of his time standing stoically silent behind them with his arms crossed, doing his best to ensure the Chiss technicians didn’t try to poke around in his archives more than they already had.

As he watched the technicians work, Jag brooded over the inevitable conversation with Hackan. He ran the earlier discussion or interrogation—Jag figured it depended on which side of the table one was sitting—through his mind over and over. The talks had taken several turns that he had not anticipated. Then again, he wasn’t sure what he had actually anticipated in the first place, but hearing a story about Chiss forces pummeling an Imperial Star Destroyer into oblivion was hardly what he had expected.

Jag was certain he was still under suspicion of being a foreign agent of some sort. Hackan’s parting words all but said as much. How Hackan had surmised Jag previously served the Empire escaped him, at least for the time being. Regardless, it was clear that his relationship with the Chiss was still a strained one.

Eventually an officer came to collect Jag. Samol was waiting for him at the bottom of the boarding ramp, though the escort that had greeted him when he first arrived on the vessel several days prior was absent. Perhaps the Chiss didn’t consider him that much of a threat after all. Or they knew he had absolutely nowhere to run to and were just waiting to vaporize him and his ship if he made any attempts to flee.

Jag decided he preferred the first scenario.

Instead of returning to Briefing One, Lieutenant Samol led Jag to an observation deck, though the deck was hardly designed for sightseeing. Several monitors hung on the wall and workstations, currently occupied by Chiss crewmen, indicated that the deck served as a forward command post of sorts.

Standing in front of the forward viewport with his hands clasped behind his back was Commander Hackan. Jag remained at the rear of the room until Samol ushered him forward. As he approached, he saw a formation of five starfighters shoot across from starboard, followed by another duo that executed a tight crossing maneuver as they reversed their direction and swung back aft.

He was still admiring the starfighters when Hackan broke the silence.

“Our time together must now come to an end.” Again, the commander was straight to the point. “We have reached the edge of Chiss territory. As we agreed, you will be permitted to leave without incident.”

Jag nodded. “And my nav data?”

“In due time, Captain. There are still a few matters which require our attention.”

Jag glanced at the Chiss out of the corner of his eye. It was about time they got this over with.

“I assume you are curious as to how I know you are involved with the Empire.”

“I’ve already told you,” Jag said evenly, trying not to react too quickly. “I’m _not_ an Imperial.” When Hackan said nothing in return, Jag waited a moment before continuing. “But that wasn’t always the case. I served with an elite unit of commandos for about two years.”

When he didn’t elaborate further, Hackan turned away from the viewport and fixed his eyes on Jag. “Why were you forced to leave?”

Jag hesitated at Hackan’s conclusion. “I wasn’t exactly _forced_ , Commander, though I suppose it’s a matter of semantics. An…incident occurred that made continued service impossible.”

Hackan cocked an eyebrow. “I assume that is all you intend to say about the matter.”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Ah.” Hackan’s expression softened a bit. “Allow me to persuade you.”

He then called to one of the nearby officers in his native language. The officer nodded and approached them with a datapad.

“This is an overview of what we’ve added to your ship’s memory banks. I’ve gone to great lengths to make this information available to you and protect you from further…unpleasantness.”

“What do you mean?” Jag asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Since our original encounter, I have kept your presence a secret from my superiors.” Hackan gave Samol a quick nod, and the lieutenant granted them privacy. “The Ruling Families would not have looked kindly upon our exchange of information—or my crew’s hospitality. However, I’ve found our conversations intriguing. I would hope they’ve been equally enlightening for you.”

Jag nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

“Still, I’m not sure you understand the implications of my actions, though I do not expect you to, nor do I expect any sympathy for the predicament in which I have placed myself and Lieutenant Samol. I do, however, expect a small measure of professional courtesy.”

There was something in the way Hackan said the last bit that grabbed Jag’s attention. He detected no malice or hint of intimidation, though it seemed clear Hackan would only accept a single response. The Chiss commander certainly knew how to get what he wanted.

 _Kriffing aliens._ Jag cursed as he sighed audibly.

“My unit was assigned a mission that was more or less a privately arranged assassination,” Jag said quietly as he felt a deeply embedded anger begin to simmer within. “We didn’t find out what was really going on until it was too late. Needless to say, things didn’t go according to plan.”

Jag paused and bit the inside of his cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hackan studying him intensely and wondered if he was controlling his expression as well he thought.

“Our commanding officer turned on us. We barely got offplanet alive. Not everyone made it out. At that point, our options were to return to the Empire and probably be killed by another corrupt group of operatives, or try to survive on our own. We opted for the latter.

“Unsurprisingly, that plan went barvy fairly quickly. After that situation imploded, I went out on my own. I’ve been scraping money together however I could and doing my best to put my specialized skills to use.”

He turned to face Hackan. “Which brings us to the present situation: me standing on the bridge of an alien ship in a system the known galaxy doesn’t know exists, talking to a commanding officer who has been far too generous for my liking with information about his territory.

“And now, Commander, I would like some answers.”

Hackan said nothing, but continued to stare at Jag unblinkingly. His red eyes seemed to glow brighter than usual and Jag fought the urge to blink, refusing to break his gaze. Maybe it was nothing more than paranoia taking hold, but Jag started to grow tense and increasingly uncomfortable with the silence.

“This information will not come without a cost,” Hackan finally said.

Jag’s forehead creased. “Did I miss something, or does the Chiss deal in Republic credits as well?”

Hackan smiled faintly. “This will not burden you financially, Captain.”

He made a quick summoning gesture to Lieutenant Samol, who promptly obeyed and produced a datapad upon his arrival. “The burden will be intellectual and, in large part, physical.”

Jag felt his stomach tighten with uncertainty and the growing suspicion that the Chiss commander had been toying with him and was about to close the trap.

“In exchange for your timely release from Chiss custody, and for the navigational information we have provided, you will provide the Chiss Ascendancy—more specifically, _me_ —with pertinent intelligence and personal assistance when necessary.”

Jag’s head snapped around and he stared at Hackan in stunned silence. _Assistance?_

“Exactly what kind of assistance?”

Hackan turned his gaze back to the viewport. “After my encounter with Captain Eguilan, I deployed several agents whose sole mission is to gather information on your New Republic. They will, as you can probably surmise, meet a certain amount of difficulty in unfamiliar territory. You will be expected to assistance them in whatever capacity they require if contacted.

“You will also supply them with whatever military intelligence you happen upon, which will in turn be communicated to me. Communication between you and I will cease. In fact, as far as the Chiss Ascendancy is concerned, this encounter never occurred, and there are no members of the Ascendancy operating outside of its boundaries.”

Jag crossed his arms and frowned. He had to give the commander credit; the Chiss hadn’t left Jag with a choice. Still, there was something about Hackan’s maneuvering that felt borderline sinister.

“I thought the Chiss didn’t believe in preemptive action, or was I also misled in that regard?”

Hackan continued to stare distantly at the vast emptiness of space in front of them. “I would hardly consider information gathering ‘preemptive action,’ Captain. Regardless, while my actions may or may not qualify as a breach of policy—it is not necessary for you to know one way or the other—I believe it is absolutely vital to the survival of my people’s civilization that we be as well prepared and informed as possible.

“I will not follow former Commander Thrawn’s lead by engaging in preemptive military action. However, I refuse to allow my people to be caught off guard by a menace for which we could have prepared. I’m sure a man with your history can appreciate the desire to guard against all potential threats.”

He paused and eyed Jag. “What I expect from you, Captain, is to inform my agents of any potential threats to my people you uncover. I trust you will use your best judgment. You need not bother with crime lords or pirates unless they occupy sectors near Chiss space. I am primarily concerned with large scale military operations. I trust you have some impressive contacts from your time with the Empire. I ask that you use them wisely.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable enough,” Jag said. “The agents you’ve selected speak Basic?”

“They do.”

“Good. Though your men will probably do a better job of monitoring significant developments than me, I’ll do my best to honor your request. However, I ask only thing in return.”

Hackan raised an eyebrow, silently urging Jag to continue.

“If the need should ever arise, I’d like _you_ to assist me.”

The exchange of glances between Hackan and Samol was quick but noticeable. Both Chiss eyed him curiously for a moment before Hackan dismissed Samol with a subtle nod.

Once Jag and Hackan were alone, Jag received his answer.

“Agreed. Lieutenant Samol will have a technician load the necessary command codes into your ship’s systems, assuming you have no issue with delaying your departure for a few hours.”

“No problem at all.”

Jag suppressed a smile. He was going to come out of the job in better shape than he could have ever hoped. While he was returning with zero evidence of his months-long voyage and would, in all likelihood, receive zero payment for his efforts, he had developed an invaluable asset.

Granted, he would have to find a new line of work and keep an eye out for people looking to kill him. As far as he knew, accepting seventy-five thousand credits and then ditching the job wasn’t something most people tended to forgive.

“Well, Commander, it’s been a—”

An alarm klaxon cut Jag short. Commander Hackan’s head snapped around and he barked a question at the nearest officer. The officer in turn asked the Chiss to his left a series of questions while he studied sensor readings. A moment later, Hackan had an answer, and judging by the look he gave Jag was any indication, something was wrong. He barked another order before turning to Jag.

“So, your time with the Empire is no more, Captain?” Hackan snarled.

Jag could only look back with an expression of total confusion with his mouth hanging open.

“Care to explain _that?_ ”

Hackan jabbed a finger toward the viewport, where in the distance, a small ship rapidly approached the _Mirtan’hu_.

Jag leaned closer to the viewport and squinted, trying to make out the basic features of the craft. Chiss starfighters were already on a course to intercept. When he caught a good look at the ship approaching the Chiss cruiser, it became instantly clear why the pilot had refused to respond to any hailing attempts and why he had refused to change course.

The ship was _Slave I_.


	14. Chapter 14

Commander Hackan missed nothing. He seized on Jag’s moment of recognition before Jag had even processed what was happening.

“You know this ship.”

It was not a question, but an indictment. Jag would have to pick his words carefully.

“Yes, I’m familiar with it.”

“Mere familiarity does not typically evoke such a strong reaction, Captain Girran,” Hackan said bitterly. “Why is this ship in Chiss space, and how did it get here?”

Jag gave Hackan a sincere, helpless look. “I have _no_ idea, Commander. Yes, I know the ship. Yes, I know the pilot. Beyond that, I have no information for you.”

“ _Nuchak_!” snapped Lieutenant Samol. He had returned to his earlier position beside Jag, who had not the slightest clue as to what the Chiss had just called him. It certainly did not sound kind. Judging by the way Hackan raised his brow in surprise, it probably wasn’t something that an officer should say while on duty.

“The Lieutenant believes you are withholding information, Captain, as do I. Who is the pilot of this ship, and again, why is he here?”

Jag turned his attention back to the scarred Firespray that had since settled into a holding pattern, as had the pack of Chiss starfighters that seemed far too anxious to jump into action. If the current situation failed to unfold to his advantage, he might find himself on the run from those same starfighters, and he did not see that ending well for him.

“The pilot is a man named Boba Fett,” Jag said. “He’s a bounty hunter—a very, very good, very, very deadly bounty hunter.” Neither Hackan nor Samol seemed overly impressed.

“I know who he is because he led one of my unit’s missions after I joined the Empire. It was fairly simple, just required some specific knowledge that only he possessed.” He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that. The point is, yes, I know who he is, but I assure you, Commander, I have _no_ idea what he’s doing this far out of Known Space. For all I know, the man who hired me to come out here hired him to find and kill me.”

Hackan looked at Samol and cocked an eyebrow. Out of the corner of his eye, Jag saw the lieutenant return the expression. Hackan then fixed his eyes on Jag.

“We have but one choice.” The commander turned toward one of the bridge officers. “ _Krommeahs_.”

A Chiss officer who looked at least ten years younger than Hackan strode over to them.

“Continue hailing the alien ship,” Hackan ordered. “Notify me when you receive a response, but _do not_ respond.” He turned and stared at Jag. “That duty is reserved for Captain Girran and myself.”

Jag fought the urge to shake his head in exasperation. The situation was deteriorating quickly, and whatever shred of control he had over it was about to disappear completely.

Five minutes passed before Fett responded, and when he did, it was simple.

“Fett. Go.”

Hackan repeated nearly verbatim the command he had issued Jag upon his own arrival.

“This is Commander Cluh’ack’annotru of the Chiss vessel _Mirtan’hu_. You have violated the borders of the Chiss Ascendancy. State your intentions.”

Fett took his time answering. Either the bounty hunter was not intimidated by the Chiss or he had one of the best sabaac faces Jag had ever seen.

“I’m not here for you or your Ascendancy. But you do have something I want,” the cold, accented voice said. Almost in unison, every set of glowing eyes on the bridge turned to Jag. Sweat started beading on his forehead. Hackan’s eyes seemed to glow brighter than before, as if they were preparing to incinerate Jag where he stood.

“Your turn, Captain.” Hackan stepped aside and gestured towards the comm. Jag inhaled deeply and turned towards the comm’s mic.

“This is Captain Jag Girran, operating on behalf of the Vraa Erun Syndicate,” he announced, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I assume I’m the reason you’re here.”

Instead of a menacing reply, there was only silence. What seemed like hours were likely only seconds, though the interruption of that silence was not something Jag expected.

“Commander…Cluh…Commander. Inform _Captain_ Girran that if he intends to return to the Galaxy as he knows it—alive—it would serve him well to exit your ship immediately.”

Lieutenant Samol muttered something that sounded like a curse while Hackan simply cocked an eyebrow.

“You may wish to rephrase yourself. Threats against the Chiss, however veiled, are not taken lightly.”

“It’s no threat,” Fett retorted. “And it’s certainly not directed at you. I want nothing to do with you or your people. I want Girran, and I want him untouched. Release him now, and you won’t hear from me again.”

“You will have to forgive my lack of faith in an armed stranger, but I have only your word that you’ll not return to this part of space,” Hackan said.

“My word is all you should need.”

Hackan raised his eyebrows and looked at Jag, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 _Good to see someone’s entertained_ , Jag thought bitterly.

“Unfortunately, I am not in a position that allows such great investments of faith in one’s integrity,” Hackan replied. “You will come aboard this vessel, and, should I determine your release a prudent decision, it will be so.”

No verbal response came from Fett, though an officer from one of the sensor stations confirmed that _Slave I’s_ weapons were deactivated and the ship was slowly making its way towards the _Mirtan’hu_. The starfighters slowly started to arrange themselves in an escort formation.

“It would appear you’ve agreed to my terms,” Hackan said into the comm. “Continue your current course and follow your escort to our hangar.”

“Not like I’ve got much of a choice,” Fett muttered.

“Indeed. I suggest you remember that.”

***

The next two hours went by without incident, at least as far as Jag was concerned. He spent them on the bridge inspecting the list of entries the Chiss technicians had made in the _Nomadin’s_ memory banks. Both Commander Hackan and Lieutenant Samol were absent, presumably spending their time elsewhere with Boba Fett. It wasn’t until Hackan returned to the bridge alone that Jag’s earlier sense of overwhelming anxiety returned, but Hackan’s demeanor eased some of his concerns.

“It would appear Captain Fett is not here to kill you—at least not anymore,” the commander said. “He seems to have taken a far greater interest in you than he originally had. Perhaps you should be flattered.”

“I’m not sure that flattery is the proper emotional response to Boba Fett taking even the smallest amount of interest in you,” Jag said. “I don’t expect you to appreciate the type of man we’re dealing with, but where I come from, most of the people he crosses paths with don’t live to talk about it.”

Hackan gave Jag a mockingly hurt look. “I would hope you had greater faith in my perceptiveness. This Fett is a very calculated man, to say the least. His hardened demeanor speaks volumes to the way he approaches his craft. If our encounter was under different circumstances, I would take care to not anger him. It does not surprise me that you speak of him with such fear and…reverence.”

Jag smiled inwardly at the admiration in Hackan’s voice. It was remarkable that Fett could evoke such a reaction from an alien species after just a few hours. It was even more impressive that such a reaction came from a military man like Commander Hackan.

“I don’t suppose he gave a reason for his newfound interest in me.”

Hackan shook his head. “And I did not ask. It is not my concern, Captain Girran. I can assure you that he will not harm you, but of more than that, I’m afraid I can tell you nothing.” He motioned toward the door. “If you would please come with me, Captain Fett is waiting.”

With only the briefest of pauses, Jag followed Commander Hackan. It was a short walk to where Fett was waiting. Lieutenant Samol stood silently in the corner of the room, while Fett stood with his arms crossed on the opposite side of the long table that occupied the room.

It had been over five years since Jag had last seen the bounty hunter, but time had done nothing to diminish Fett’s presence. Despite being shorter than Jag, the man was one of the most intimidating beings Jag had ever met.

 _Probably has something to do with the body count he’s racked up_.

At first, no one spoke. Fett’s visor remained locked on Jag while Hackan and Samol looked on with curious expressions.

Boba Fett spoke first. “So. You’re Girran.” Jag nodded but said nothing, so Fett continued. “They left that part out.”

“Who left what out?”

“My employers, genius.” Fett sounded impatient. “They didn’t tell me I was coming after _you_.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think I don’t remember you?”

Jag shifted uncomfortably for a moment before answering, ignoring the fact that his body language wasn’t doing him any favors in front of Commander Hackan, whose red eyes were fixed on Jag.

“I thought you might recognize a face, at least,” Jag replied.

“That fresh gash isn’t doing you any favors.”

Jag fought the urge to run a finger along the relatively new scar that ran diagonally across his face, starting above his right eyebrow and down across his left cheek. How it missed his left eye, he would never know.

“So, who did they say you were chasing?”

“Some courier who skipped out with a ship full of spice, weapons, and several hundred thousand credits destined for one of their outposts.”

Jag couldn’t help but laugh.

“If only.” He nodded towards the two Chiss in the room. “As I told them, I’m in the middle of a navigational expedition. For the last several months, I’ve been slowly making my way into the Unknown Regions—and, apparently, the realm of the Chiss Ascendancy—gathering system data and charting potential hyperspace lanes.

“I hardly expected it to take as long as it has, and clearly Vraa Erun didn’t either. I had about a week left before I turned back, but Commander Hackan here had other plans. I had every intention of going back to Erun with whatever information I collected out here, but unfortunately, that’s no longer an option.”

“So you _were_ planning on skipping out with the seventy-five thousand he paid you?” Fett asked.

Jag shrugged. “I figured Erun would kill me if I showed up without his nav data so…yeah, actually, I was going to keep the money.”

“In that case, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold up my end of the bargain,” Fett said. Jag looked at Hackan, who shrugged nonchalantly. “I was willing to let you live, too.”

“Now wait a second.” Jag pointed a finger at Fett. “That’s not what I—.”

“Patience, Captain,” Commander Hackan said quietly.

Jag shot the Chiss an irritated look but Hackan merely nodded reassuringly in response.

“I’m not opposed to compromise. I was sent here to collect both you and the seventy-five thousand.” Fett leaned forward with his palms pressed against the table. “Fortunately for you, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with handing over the son of the Temm Girran.”

It was several seconds before Jag realized his jaw was hanging open.

“How do you know my father?”

Fett scoffed. “Not going to be that easy. I’m letting you live. Be happy with that.”

“Captain Fett, I suggest you watch your tone.” Hackan’s voice was measured and cold. “Do not forget you are currently aboard this vessel as a courtesy. My hospitality has limits.” The glow of his red eyes seemed to intensify for a brief moment. “Do not test them.”

Fett stared at Hackan in silence for several seconds before looking back to Jag.

“So be it. Go home, Girran. Go back to Taanab. Take time to mourn your father’s death—properly.” Fett reached into a pouch on his belt and slid a small datapad across the table. “You’ll need this if you’re as curious as I think you are. Now, if our gracious hosts would permit us a moment?”

The two Chiss in the room nodded and exited the room. Once the door closed, Fett wasted no time.

“Sit down,” he ordered. “First, you should know that letting you live is going to cost me a solid chunk of credits. I’m not happy about it, and I’m not sure I’m making the right decision. Still, I owe it to your father.”

“You keep talking about my father,” Jag said without trying to hide his irritation. “It’s about time you tell me why.”

“You’re in no position to make demands,” Fett shot back. “And if you keep this up, I’ll put a blaster bolt between your eyes and take my chances against your blue-skinned friends outside. May I continue?”

Jag fumed in silence but begrudgingly nodded.

“I met your father years ago, shortly before you were born. Your mother was back on Taanab waiting for you to join the party. Temm—rather, your father—was taking care of some loose ends before going into retirement.”

“Retirement from what? He was a farmer. He’d been one all his life.”

“Think what you want, kid. Your father was a Mando, and a damn good one at that.”

At first, the shock kept Jag from answering. Then it was the doubt and disbelief.

“My father was a farmer,” he said again.

“You think I’m keeping you alive so I can lie to you?” Fett’s voice raised with anger. “I’m doing you a favor, you kriffing fool.”

“Some favor. I’ll be hunted down within days of showing my face at any spaceport any two-bit bounty hunter knows about. I won’t last a week.”

Fett hissed a curse. “You’re a disgrace, you know that? So you served with some clandestine commando unit for a couple years. Do you really think that’s worthy of your family name?”

“You know nothing about my family’s name,” Jag spat back, but Fett just laughed.

“Unfortunately for you, that’s not be the case.” Fett slid a small datapad across the table. “Take a look.”

Jag took the datapad and activated the screen. It contained a holo of a rugged looking man with short cropped brown hair, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders. The man looked like what Jag assumed he would look like in about ten years. The man was his father.

“Where was this taken?” he asked quietly.

“Tatooine. A few people there said some very unkind things about him.” Fett pocketed the datapad after Jag returned it. “They also tried to have him killed.”

“I take it that’s when you two met?”

“Yes. I was doing some work for Jabba the Hutt that had to do with the same outfit your father was busting up. We helped each other out, simplified the job.”

“That hardly explains why you hold him in such high esteem.”

“He saved my life. Twice.” Fett shrugged his shoulders. “Probably shouldn’t have. It was my own stupidity. Got careless. Ended up looking like an amateur. Lucky for me, he was the only one left alive who knew about it.”

“So, what—this is you repaying some debt you think you owed to satisfy your own warped sense of morality?”

“Watch the lip, kid.” Fett jabbed a finger at Jag. “I’ve warned you twice. That’s two more times than you deserve.”

“Fine,” Jag said. “Then let me get this straight. I’m walking out of here, you’re taking the seventy-five thousand, and I’ll be dead in a week once Erun hears I’m alive.” He nodded his head mockingly. “Great plan.”

“If you’d stop trying to impress yourself with your own sarcasm, I’ll explain how this is going to work. I’m taking the credits and you’re disappearing. You’re going to Taanab and you’re going pick up where your father left off.”

“You mean running the farm?”

Fett pointed to the small datapad he had given Jag earlier. “I mean that. Don’t bother tinkering with it now, it won’t do a damn thing for you.”

Jag frowned and regarded Fett suspiciously before studying the datapad for a moment. Not ready to trust the bounty hunter, he tried thumbing the power switch and tried a few other commands but to no avail.

“Like I said.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jag stood up and pocketed the datapad. “I’ve got my instructions—both sets—and I’m not doing anyone any good sitting here.”

For a moment, Fett said nothing—he just stared at Jag. After Jag cocked a questioning eyebrow, Fett spoke.

“You have my permission to use whatever you find. Don’t make me regret that.”

Frowning in confusion, Jag’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t ask any questions. Like the datapad, the reasons for Fett’s cryptic statements probably awaited him on Taanab.

“Well…I suppose I should thank you.”

“Don’t bother,” Fett said dismissively. “I’ll feel like I did you a favor.”

Jag smiled slightly. “In that case, I’d say our business here is finished.”

They summoned Commander Hackan, who returned with Lieutenant Samol. Satisfied that Fett would not execute Jag upon their departure, Hackan returned them to their vessels. Jag found the _Nomadin_ almost exactly as he had left it, though he knew deep within the memory banks laid an enormous wealth of navigational knowledge. All he had to do was survive and it would be his.

As if that thought weren’t depressing enough, Commander Hackan’s parting words bounced around his head the entire trip back to Known Space.

“Stay alive, Captain Girran. You have much work to do.”


	15. Chapter 15

The fact that he had made it as far as Taanab shocked Jag almost as much as seeing the Chiss cruisers appear in the Unknown Regions. Despite his promises to the contrary, Jag had expected Fett to kill him as soon they finished their first jump out of Chiss space.

Yet here he was, still aboard the _Nomadin_ , dropping into orbit around the blue-green sphere of Taanab. After about twenty minutes he broke for the surface, using one of the few counterfeit transponders he had in his possession to bypass the planet’s traffic control. He found his family’s farm easily enough.

It was a recognizable plot: the processing buildings sat next to a bluff that dominated the landscape, situated between two shallow lakes. Beyond that, an intricate irrigation system delivered water to a massive expanse of plains populated by herds of nerfs and staga. Next to the smaller of the two lakes, tucked against the bluff, was a modestly sized structure that had served as Jag’s home for the first sixteen years of his life. Aside from the varying states of decay that plagued the settlement’s structures, everything looked just as he’d left it.

Jag set the _Nomadin_ down on a clearing in front of a now-decrepit set of dwellings that once served as small equipment sheds. He made his way toward his old house and found the front door still intact, but the walls around it had been damaged. Sections of them were heavily scorched with blaster burns, which told a tale of a shootout that had taken a heavy toll on the structure. Jag cringed as he ran his fingers along some of the holes.

Once he found a wall that looked damaged enough, he fired several blaster shots into the stone and mortar wall in a diagonal pattern, left to right, then rammed his shoulder through it.

The combined effect of the elements and his blaster had weakened the wall far more than he anticipated, and his attempt to break through the wall was successful—mostly. Jag burst through the wall amid a cloud of debris and dust, and landed flat on his face inside the dwelling. Several small pieces of stone pelted the back of his head and he wheezed through a coughing fit as he tried to breathe amidst the still settling dust cloud.

“Ow.”

He dragged himself to his feet, wiped the dust from his face, and inspected the room with a glowrod. Not much had changed since he had left. Most of the furniture was the same, though the majority of it was overturned in one way or another. He grimaced as he noticed some blaster burns in the walls and did his best to stifle waves of guilt as they tried to make their way into his consciousness.

Jag shook his head at the ransacked room. His parents had been clearly overwhelmed by whoever attacked. He wasn’t surprised the farm had finally been hit hard. He was barely a teenager the last time the farm had endured a serious attack, and had it not been for his piloting and sure shooting, his father would probably have died then.

As he made his way through the house, memories began to wash over him in a surreal fashion. Reliving the joys and distresses he had experienced as a youngster were a welcomed distraction from the gloomy state of the house. It wasn’t until he turned a corner into a back room that the memories vanished and his attention was viciously hauled back into focus.

In front of him were two bodies—at least the remains of two bodies—propped against a wall. A blaster lay next to each one, but their last charges had been spent long ago. Jag kneeled between them, looking back and forth between the two bodies. Though the remains were mostly skeletal, he gently took a hand of each body in his own.

The emotions roiling within him finally became too much. He began to cry, quietly at first, then in uncontrollable sobs. Had he been there, his parents might have survived. He probably would have wound up dead as well, but at least they wouldn’t have died alone. He had abandoned them, left them to fend for themselves against the inevitable pirate raids.

 _No. That’s not true_.

His father had encouraged him to leave, to take advantage of a great opportunity. His parents had been proud of him. But that did little to ease the guilt, or stop the voice in his head that kept shouting over and over that they died because he wasn’t there to defend them.

His sobs eventually gave way to shallow breaths loaded with anger. He dropped his parents’ hands and clenched his fists together. Whoever had done this had known his parents would be vulnerable to an attack. They knew they would be alone. They knew _he_ wouldn’t be there.

Jag’s emotions overcame him so quickly and intensely that at first, he didn’t realize he had begun to punch the walls. He grabbed a wooden chair and slammed it against the wall. It exploded in a shower of splinters, and he roared in pain as one of the splinters lodged itself in his forearm. He ripped the piece of wood from his skin and continued with his destructive frenzy. It wasn’t until he grabbed a metal drawer from a table and slammed it against the far wall that he came to a stop.

The _clang_ of metal on metal echoed throughout the room and Jag stumbled a bit as the drawer shook violently in his hands. Puzzled as to what would have caused that, he tossed the drawer aside and drew his blaster. He moved back to the door and shielded himself at best he could, leaving only his left arm exposed. He squeezed the trigger and fired a single shot, which ended up being more than enough.

The bolt ricocheted off the wall and shot back towards Jag. He dove out of the doorway and back into the hall, laying flat on his stomach and covering his head. The bolt died as soon as it struck the near wall, however, and Jag peeked back in the room to assess the scene. The far wall had a light scorch mark where the bolt had hit, but there was no further damage.

Jag scratched his chin and stared at the wall for a minute, then ran a bare hand along it. He rapped his knuckles on the wall a few times as he looked for dead spots or hints of a concealed room. He found nothing, which left him only more confused.

“What were you up to, Dad?”

He had been a curious child but had never happened upon anything in this room. Then again, he barely remembered ever coming into this room. His father had strict rules about when he could and couldn’t be in there.

Kneeling near the base of the wall, he conducted the same test on the floor. It wasn’t until he reached the interior corner of the room that he discovered an abnormality. He tapped the butt of his blaster against both the floor and the wall that ran perpendicular to the seemingly indestructible wall. Each tap produced a distinct hollow sound. He picked up the metal drawer and tried to throw it through the hollow part of the wall.

A large gash in the wall ripped open as the drawer tore through it. Jag kept slamming the drawer against the wall, and after several strikes, the wall finally gave way. He punched through the rest of it to expose an empty space behind the wall. With his glowrod in one hand, he ripped away more junks of the wall as he tried to create an opening large enough to see or climb through.

After a few minutes, he reached the glowrod through the hole and inspected the space beyond. It was a crawlspace large enough to crouch and walk; the cobwebs and thick layers of dust on the floor suggested it hadn’t been used for quite some time. Jag tossed the glowrod into the space, and while it landed several meters away, he still could not see the end of the crawlspace. He double-checked his blaster and clumsily climbed through the opening in the wall and into the crawlspace.

The glowrod’s light made the cloud of dust inside the crawlspace look thicker and opaque. He pushed through more cobwebs and brushed a pair of long-legged arachnids off his head as he went. Once he reached the glowrod, he tossed it further down the crawlspace. It bounced off a wall about six meters away and fell to the ground, revealing a turn to the left.

What the light did not reveal was a slant in the floor, and Jag nearly stumbled forward but braced himself against the walls with his hands. He gathered himself and followed the descending tunnel for another ten meters or so before it finally leveled out and gave way to a much space with a much higher ceiling.

The walls there did not have the synthetic, metal walls that the crawlspace did, but rather natural linings up stone and earth. Jag threw his glowrod down the open space, and as it traveled, it revealed he considered a corridor with its ceiling only a meter above his head. His glowrod landed without revealing an end to the passageway. Jag carefully walked toward the glowrod, and once he reached it, he threw it again. This time, once it landed, it rolled a few times then abruptly stopped.

Forgoing his previous caution, Jag broke into a sprint toward the glowrod. He knew his father well enough to know that some sort of lethal trap likely lay dormant, anxious to unleash death upon unsuspecting and unwelcome guests. Sure enough, pressurized bursts of acid exploded from the wall as he darted towards the glowrod, each blast narrowly missing him.

When he was only a few meters from the end of the corridor, he dropped into a feet first slide. Right before he collided with the wall, he sprang to his feet and spun around, flattening himself against what he assumed was a door.

Once satisfied no additional ambushes awaited, Jag carefully retrieved the glowrod from the ground and used it to inspect the wall. Unlike the walls of the passageway, this one had a metallic surface and apparent density of a bulkhead. He ran a hand along the wall, trying to find an irregularity or anything that hinted at concealed controls.

His search was rewarded when a small panel along the wall to the right of the door suddenly illuminated and the material began to soften. Before Jag could pull his hand away, the panel turned into a gel-like substance and his entire hand and half of his forearm disappeared into membrane. He winced as a series of pinches ran up and down his skin. Then, almost as quickly as it had been seized, his arm was released and the panel solidified.

Jag inspected his arm for wounds but found nothing, though the skin was a warm to the touch. Puzzled, he restarted his search for a set of controls but stopped when the loud groan of mechanical devices coming to life filled the corridor. He stepped back from the door and slid his hand to his holstered blaster. The floor started to shake as the door began to rise. A quick blast of pressurized air escaped into the corridor from whatever room the door concealed.

He stepped through the door and ascended the stairway that lay beyond. Once he reached the top, he held up the glowrod, but the space was seemingly massive as the light revealed nothing. It felt cavernous as he slowly walked further into the emptiness. The hair on his arms and neck stood on end, partly from excitement, partly from him anticipating another onslaught of lethal surprises, but the tension subsided when no attack came.

After his fourth or fifth step forward, he heard a loud, distant _thud_ that echoed throughout the chamber. Banks of lights started coming to life, starting at the back of the chamber, which was much larger than he originally thought. Portions of the chamber’s walls slid open revealing workstations and cabinets, while other wall panels flipped around to grant access to banks of monitors. Still, it was what sat in the middle of the chamber that gripped Jag’s attention.

Looking as though it had spent no more than a day in flight, the Corellian YV-664 was absolutely pristine. The hull was painted a dark gray with patches of silver along the underside. The boarding ramp was down, but none of the interior lights of the ship were activated.

Jag walked beneath the ship, examining it in awe as he ran a hand along the hull. Where his father had acquired the ship, he had no idea. How his father had managed to conceal a what looked like a hangar, he had even less of an idea. While the bluff next to the dwelling was certainly large enough to house something of this size, Jag wondered why he had never located any trace of the massive chamber during his youthful explorations of the area.

He inspected the workstations the wall panels had hidden before his arrival, which had since activated and stood ready for his command. Jag was still marveling at the ship and the array of equipment throughout the cavernous space when he came across an unopened door. After he failed to locate a control panel for the door, he grabbed a stool and went to work on a nearby terminal.

Once he bypassed the initial safeguards, Jag was able to locate a series of commands that appeared to control various hatches in the hangar. He decided he was hardly in the mood for a full-fledged investigation and triggered all of them.

Jag grabbed a hold of the terminal as the room began to shake. The door he had focused on started to open then faltered, but that was hardly his primary concern at this point. A slew of other hatches to assorted maintenance closets flew open, revealing a significant stockpile of weaponry. Still, it was what the ceiling of the hangar was doing that worried Jag.

A block of lights had blinked out and huge slabs of metal plating were diverging. The floor was shaking again, this time quite violently. As he watched, several more layers of plating separated until slivers of sunlight began to peek through, and dirt and rocks began to fall through the opening as the final layer pulled apart. Eventually the final layer locked into place, creating a rectangle-shaped opening in the ceiling approximately fifteen meters up. Chunks of dirt and grass continued to fall to the floor of the hangar and bounce off the hull of the Corellian freighter.

Clearly, Jag’s father had access to far more resources than Jag had been led to believe. He wondered how something like this managed to exist without him ever knowing. He also wondered why his father had never bothered to tell him. Unfortunately, that was something he would never discover, but he saw no harm in taking advantage of what his father had left behind.

The single door Jag had originally been attempting to open had stopped about a third of its way up. Jag frowned and cautiously approached it. He could see the area behind the door was dark, but unless he crawled on his hands and knees, he could not fit under the door.

Annoyed, he rummaged through the workstations and cabinets until he found a suitable tool for the task. He returned to the door with the laser cutter and got to work. After a few minutes, Jag had cut away the section of door blocking his path. He took a deep breath and stepped through the fresh opening.

Just as the hangar had illuminated when he stepped inside, so too did this room, bringing Jag to a standstill.

Mounted on the walls were several pairs of ornate blaster pistols. Each set was decorated with a unique series of markings that appeared to be some sort of language, though it was unlike anything Jag had ever seen. There were also several blaster rifles hung on racks, and while some of them bore a resemblance to models Jag was quite familiar with, it was clear that his father had made multiple modifications.

Still, it wasn’t the weaponry that left Jag standing frozen in shock. Rather, it was the suit of armor hanging along the far wall. Its style was one that struck fear and awe into the hearts of all who gazed upon it. Legends from all stages of Galactic history had worn some variation of this very armor. And here, in front of Jag Girran, hung a complete set of it.

His father’s Mandalorian armor.

Jag approached the suit’s display, which looked something like a shrine. The armor was a dark charcoal color with crimson accents. The charcoal was so dark it bordered on black. The gauntlets’ colors matched the chest plate and shoulder pieces, but they bore designs far more ornate than those on the chest plates. Jag glanced back at the pistols and noticed that the etchings on the pistols perfectly matched those on the gauntlets.

The chest plate had evidence of blaster scarring, and the faded scrapes and dents hinted at a storied past. As Jag ran his fingers along the contours of the armor, his imagination ran wild with the possibilities of his father’s exploits.

Sitting in front of the armor on a stand was the suit’s helmet, painted in the same colors as the body plates and gauntlets. It too was scraped and scarred, further bolstering Fett’s claims that Jag’s father had been much more than a farmer from Taanab—as if the concealed hangar and modest arsenal wasn’t enough evidence.

Jag quickly went to work. He scoured the storage closets and cargo hold of the ship for empty crates and started packing up any weapon that struck his interest, then reloaded the cargo hold of the freighter. He swept the hangar one last time before returning to the weapons closet for his father’s armor.

He took it to the ship’s cabin and gently laid it all out. He secured the armor’s pieces in the room’s compartments and cabinets. Once he made it off-world and safely disappeared himself into some other planet’s scum center of an underworld, he would bring the armor online. Until then, it was a link to his past and his father. Just like the ship.

But soon, it would be his.


	16. Part V

* * *

**Part V: Hunted Hunter**

_16 A.B.Y. – Two days after leaving Axxila_

* * *

The _Spartus_ lurched as Jag drew back on the hyperdrive levers and the sphere of Terminus snapped into focus. The space surrounding the planet reminded him of Coruscant, though on a much smaller—and calmer—scale.

The large stretches of green that dotted the planet’s surface illustrated another stark contrast with Coruscant. While the urban centers of Terminus were mighty and many, the ecumenopolis that defined the galactic capital was noticeably absent from Terminus’ landscape. In a way, Jag found it comforting.

Jag followed his standard procedure for dealing with traffic control: fake transponder, synthskin facial alterations as a precaution for visual hailing, and a voice modulator wired to the ship’s transmitter. He slipped through with ease and headed for Sotol City, the planet’s primary spaceport.

While he hardly expected Bregen to be anywhere within a few thousand clicks of civilization—assuming he was even alive—scraping at the underside of society couldn’t hurt. He could probably even locate a decent ale during his investigation. He would need several if he actually did find Bregen.

It had been years since he had seen the man. When they were first on the run from the Empire, they actually spent more time frequenting cantinas and other less than legal institutions than when they had accumulated a modest fortune from pirating. Just as when they were Imperial soldiers, their duties as pirates consumed most of their time. And in the end, it was all for nothing.

Jag had visited Terminus well over a dozen times, but each trip left a worse and worse taste in his mouth. He spent his first two days checking in to every cantina and other filthy corner he could find, and talked to more deviants and probable criminals than he could remember. Nearly every species he had ever encountered was represented somewhere on the planet, even those he thought had too honorable of a culture to produce the types of beings Jag met. Clearly, being a degenerate wasn’t exclusive to one species or another.

None of that really surprised Jag, though. He had seen more of the galaxy than he could remember, but certainly enough to know greed could infect anyone. He had fallen victim to its temptation from time to time—perhaps more frequently than he would care to admit. But one thing he did not do, not since his time with the Empire, was compromise his values.

On the third day, Jag entered a cantina he had visited many times before, and always made a point of visiting each time he came to Terminus. Unlike most of the watering holes in that sector of the city, this particular bar did not have the the nearly centimeter layer of filth that covered virtually every surface of those other places. It paled in comparison to the lofty standards of Coruscant’s luxurious restaurants, but compared to the slew of dives he’d seen over the past few days, it was pristine.

Its relative cleanliness aside, the cantina offered two things in particular that Jag could not resist. The first was a Bosph named, Maur Unes who happened to be one of the finest nalargon players Jag had ever heard. Unes created sounds with melodies that were simply beautiful yet hauntingly dark. His music had the unsettling ability to simultaneously relax Jag and put him on the verge of trembling. It was one of the few things in the universe that left him feeling completely vulnerable.

Then there was the bartender. She also owned the place. And she was the most attractive female Jag had ever encountered.

Ketlyna Nollstren was a Zeltron, and while the species was galactically renowned for their beauty, Jag found her to be exceptional, and if the way his last visit to her cantina transpired was any indication, the feeling was mutual. On this particular occasion, however, he had neither the time nor inclination to engage in fraternization of any sort, though he was sure she would try to convince him otherwise. Jag needed her _other_ talents.

In addition to running Jag’s favorite cantina, Ketlyna operated one of the most reliable intelligence networks in that sector of the Outer Rim. Her resources had given him the deciding advantage more times than he could count with his hunts. He would need her keen connection to the heartbeat of the galaxy’s underworld if he hoped to find Bregen.

Jag entered the cantina as inconspicuously as someone in Mandalorian armor could. A few heads turned toward him for all of a second before they returned to their conversations or drinks. Perhaps it was the plethora of uncommon beings and outfits that were completely common on Terminus, but no one seemed to take much interest in him. He kept his helmet on to maintain some measure of anonymity, but it would probably take Ketlyna all of ten seconds to recognize his.

He meandered through the area of the cantina furthest from the bar as he took stock of the clientele. The lighting in the cantina, while dim, varied from one section to the next. A pair of barhands strolled through the sea of tables and people, replacing empty drinks with fresh ones. Jag snatched a full glass of what he hoped was whiskey and slipped along the far wall before finally making his way to the bar.

Jag removed his helmet and sipped from the glass—he smiled when he found it was, in fact, whiskey—then gave the bartender a confused look.

“Who the hell are you?”

The Bith behind the bar made a quite unfriendly gesture at Jag then turned his back.

_Guess I’m not getting a second drink._

“About time you showed up for another date.”

Jag grinned and turned to face the voice behind him. Standing with her hands on her hips and flashing a sly grin, Ketlyna gave him an all-too-amused look. Jag leaned back with his elbows resting on the bar and shrugged.

“I hope you don’t hold it against me. Not much of a romantic.”

“That’s hardly news, tough guy.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and nodded toward the bar. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a second.”

She slipped behind the bar and opened a hatch in the floor before disappearing through it. Jag meanwhile put his helmet back on and started making his way toward the back of the cantina. He uncomfortably settled into a booth that was not designed for anyone wearing a full set of Mandalorian armor and waited patiently. About a minute later he heard a faint knock from the inside of the wall next to the booth. A trio of quick knocks followed, the nothing. Jag repeated the sequence on his side of the wall.

A moment later, a slim panel in the wall slid open and Jag discreetly slid through it into a poorly lit narrow corridor. Ketlyna was waiting for him, and she nodded toward the corridor’s other end before leading the way.

The corridor abruptly took a turn to the right and then started a gradual descent, which eventually led them a door stacked with security clearance requirements. Ketlyna completed the battery of clearances and led Jag into what served as her operation’s headquarters.

Multiple islands of terminals were arranged around a large center monitor. Workers of a variety species manned the numerous work stations. Jag was familiar with some of the species present, though surprisingly not all. It was likely those he had yet to cross paths with were the reason Ketlyna’s intelligence network was so advanced. It was hardly on the level of the legendary Talon Karrde’s empire, but was one of the more elite regional enterprises.

Ketlyna led him through the maze of terminals and bundled cables, past the occasional discarded plastic cup and a few fairly intimidating guards that would make even Jag hesitate. They eventually reached a transparisteel door set between floor-to-ceiling transparisteel panels that served as walls for an office.

After the pair entered the room, Ketlyna sealed the door behind them then plopped down in a large reclining chair behind an onyx colored desk. She rested her feet on the desk and motioned for Jag to sit in one of the office’s other chairs. He obliged while taking in the room’s decorations, nodding approvingly at some of the more obscure items. Once he was comfortably seated, Ketlyna pressed a button on the desk and the door and windows smoothly transitioned from transparent to opaque.

Now that they had a moment to themselves, and in a room with normal lighting, Jag watched Ketlyna’s eyes as they studied his weathered face. Close to a year had passed since he had last seen her, and she had not yet seen the fresh nicks and scars he accumulated along the way.

“Sorry,” Jag said with smile. “We can’t all be as beautiful as the Zeltrons.”

“One of the many tragedies of the universe.”

“Indeed.”  Jag leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk while he continued to study some of the office’s decorations.

“Well?” Ketlyna asked after a few moments of silence.

Jag settled back into his chair. “Well.” He handed a datapad to Ketlyna. “I think you know why I’m here.”

She nodded after reviewing some of the datapad’s contents. “You’re looking for a man who doesn’t want to be found.”

“More or less.”

After she finished browsing the briefing Jag had prepared, she handed the datapad back and pulled out one of her own.

“If I were you, I’d leave Terminus. I’d disappear. I wouldn’t pursue this any further.” She handed him her own datapad. “But I’m not you, am I?”

Jag eyed her suspiciously as he slowly picked up the datapad and activated it. He took his time reviewing it, rereading certain sections and sparing the occasional the glance at Ketlyna. He looked through abbreviated intelligence reports, briefing transcripts, and several very specific dossiers.

When he finished, he recalled one the datapad’s files before setting the device down on the desk. He tapped the screen twice with a finger.

“Where did you get this?”

Ketlyna didn’t bother to look at the screen. “I have my ways.”

Jag set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start,” he warned through clenched teeth. “I want to know where—and _when_ —this was taken.”

Ketlyna cocked an eyebrow. “First of all, you’re welcome.” She picked up the datapad and studied it for a moment, then sighed. “This was taken a month ago.”

She reached under the desk and hit a series of buttons. A section of the tabletop diverged to reveal a detailed star chart of the galaxy. She leaned forward to study the chart and started sorting through various sectors and systems.

“Here.”

Jag’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw the designation for the chart she had selected. “Uh oh.”

Ketlyna shook her head. “I tried to tell you.”

“You didn’t tell me _that._ ” Jag grabbed his helmet and tucked it under his arm, then started for the door. “The hell with Bregen—if he’s even alive. I got to get back to Mech.”

“Mech’s dead.”

Jag froze. Part of him already knew it; there was no reason for the man on the datapad to be anywhere within thirty lightyears of Axxila, but the other part hoped that the old shop owner had turned the tables on his attacker. Jag’s breathing had started to quicken without his realizing it. He tried to regain his composure while he stood in the middle of the room for a moment, his breaths still deep and soaked with rage. No amount of focus would change that.

Ketlyna had the decency to stay silent and refrain from offering worthless consolations. Friends weren’t something that Jag had time for in his life, but Mech was one of the few people who came close to qualifying. They were mutual contacts, and in Jag’s line of work, that implied a certain amount of confidentiality—the full amount. Mech was old fashioned, the kind of being who maintained a strange sense of loyalty to those he worked with.

And it was because of that loyalty that Mech died, and the person responsible just earned a death sentence.

“Jag, I don’t know what you did, but lately we’ve started noticing some patterns, patterns that shouldn’t exist. Paths are crossing that shouldn’t cross.” She walked out from behind the desk towards Jag. “I know there are things you haven’t told me—you probably never will.

“As good as my people are, we don’t know everything. Not even Karrde can make that claim. But I do know that that mind of yours is starting to piece something together, and if I’m going to help you, I need to know what that something is.”

Jag regarded her for several long moments. He took in her full being—her beauty, her attention to detail, her inexplicable yet restrained attraction to the self-destructive disaster that was Jag Girran—and knew that the truth was something he could not burden her with.

“You can’t know,” he said quietly. “I kept Mech in the dark for years. He asked me exactly what you’re asking, and a few days later he’s dead. I don’t like coincidences, especially when the people involved in those coincidences are privy to my past.” He gently took one of her hands in his. “And I like you just enough to not want you to turn up dead, too.”

Ketlyna sighed then nodded, her eyes on the ground. “Fine. You’re on your own.” She locked eyes with him and smile gently. “You stubborn bastard.”

Jag chuckled and kissed her. “I know. And I’m sorry. But I can’t ask you to risk your people or sources for me this time. You’ve done more than enough already. I’ll do the rest. And as for the Bregen situation…”

“Industrial sector. Regional headquarters of Prennas Corporation.” She handed him a datachip. “Bogus corporation, bogus headquarters. Building’s abandoned. But that’s where you’ll find your guy.”

Jag nodded. “Not him, is it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

The look Ketlyna gave him and sent a chill up his spine. “No. And I’m not sure who—or what—you’re going to find there.”

A brief moment of sadness quickly faded as Jag resigned himself to the truth.

_He’s dead. You knew it before you even touched down._

Someone was playing him like a Sabacc training deck in such a sadistic fashion that it infuriated Jag even further.

He turned to leave the office but stopped when she didn’t release his hand.

“What if you don’t come back?”

Jag hesitated, then flexed his hand free of her hold and started toward the door. He stopped short and looked back at her.

“I’m not dying today.” He smiled and put his helmet back on. “I have too many people left to kill.”


	17. Chapter 17

Sotol City’s shipping center was populated more with automated factories than pedestrians. Cargo barges, freighters, and maglev trains moved freight to and from the hangars and depots elsewhere in the city. There was still enough foot traffic, however, to keep Jag’s paranoia on edge and his eyes darting from one shadow to the next, always looking for an ambush or tail.

If what Ketlyna had told him was correct, Jag was probably being watched. He just had no idea who or why, and unanswered questions annoyed him just about as much as overzealous street peddlers and lousy cantina musicians. Unfortunately for him, Terminus had plenty of both of those.

Jag had made his trip to the Prennas headquarters without a personal airspeeder, opting instead for public transports and cargo barges before finishing the last bit on foot. He had also made the decision to maintain comm silence with ArDee, just in case whoever was watching him tried using a sensor slicer against him. He just hoped that when he did finally try to reconnect, ArDee and the _Spartus_ would still be in one piece—and still on Terminus.

Ketlyna did not exaggerate the state of the Prennas headquarters, though “headquarters” was a bit of a generous term. The exterior was ugly and decrepit, and looked like it belonged in the decaying undercity of Coruscant. Jag was no longer concerned about whatever awaited him inside, but rather focused on the odds of whether or not the building would collapse on him once he ventured inside.

Jag unshouldered his blaster rifle and engaged the activator switch. He felt the extra-large power pack vibrate as it fed life to the modified weapon. He stopped a few steps in front of the building and studied the exterior once more.

_What better place to look for scum?_

He flipped the selector switch on the rifle to fully automatic and inhaled deeply. He held the breath for a moment, exhaled slowly, and stepped up to the entrance. The door slowly started to open, its gears whining as they pulled it up into the housing mechanism. Jag waited until it locked into place before stepping through.

The building’s interior was as depressing as the exterior. A thick layer of dust and what Jag hoped was only animal waste covered the floor. The tall, thin windows on the front of the building provided enough light for him to assess the basic layout of the area.

The immediate area inside the main door opened into a sizeable space with a circular design, similar to the first floor of many business offices Jag had seen throughout the galaxy. Beyond that, several alcoves that still contained some office furniture lined sides of the interior. In the middle of the circular space, several meters ahead of Jag, a bright cylinder of light shined down on to a large array of decorative tile. Beyond that, the visibility diminished as shadows swallowed up the room.

Once his visor compensated for the less illuminated areas, Jag grew increasingly uneasy. The room was silent, save for the occasional gust of wind that whistled through cracks in the building’s walls. Even with his helmet’s adjustments, he could not see more than a few meters beyond the cylindrical light in the center of the room.

When he distinct echo of boots clicking against the floor, his heartbeat quickened and he tightened his grip on the rifle. Still, he saw nothing, but a few seconds later, the owner of the boots entered the light.

Jag hesitated at first; the features and build, he recognized. The confident gait, even the style of the dress seemed familiar, though any former Imperial agent trying to survive in the underground would wear the same thing.

But the man staring and sneering at him with cold eyes was certainly not Jorg Bregen. Jag had to assume that the man approaching him had already determined his scheme was doomed, but Jag was curious to see how long the stranger would work to maintain the charade.

The lengths the man had taken were remarkable. Jag enhanced the magnification on his HUD and studied the man’s face. It was nearly identical to Bregen’s. The half-healed scar from a slash on the neck that Jorg sustained during a mission on Abregado-rae was all but identical—in fact, Jag was having trouble distinguishing it from the real thing. Then there was the scar near the hairline that had never healed properly. Whoever was responsible for the application of the prosthetics was truly a master of their craft.

Jag held his ground and waited for the man to draw closer. He gave his surroundings a quick glance and adjusted his grip on his rifle. The man stopped short of Jag by about ten meters, staying close to the lone column of light in the room.

For several long moments, neither man said a word. The stranger wore a long, black jacket and dark flight pants, but Jag was still able to spot the pair of blasters holstered on the man’s hips, as well as the blasters holstered inside the jacket. The man was clearly not concerned with discretion.

Another gust of wind swept through the vacant building, though it only gently swirled the bottom of the man’s jacket. With the aid of his helmet’s audio receptors, Jag could have sworn he heard something stir to both his left and right.

_Interesting._

He raised the levels on the receptors and returned his attention to the man in front of him, who finally broke the silence.

“Hello, old friend.”

Jag slowly raised the barrel of the rifle without fully bringing to bear on the man then nodded in response.

“‘Old’, huh?”

The man shrugged. “Come on, Jag. I know it’s been a few years, but—”

“How many?”

The man hesitated. “What?”

“How many?” Jag repeated as his heart rate increased slightly. “How many years has it been?”

“Ah.” The man gave him the same smile as before. “Ten.”

Jag smiled inwardly. _Almost_.

He started focusing on keeping his pulse under control and began planning his first shot. _Jorg didn’t do “almost.”_

He didn’t see the point in outing the mistake. “Yeah. Just about.” He flipped the rifle’s activator switch off and rested in the crook of his arm with the barrel pointed at the ceiling.

The man posing as Jorg Bregen took a step toward Jag, making a visible effort to keep his hands clear of his holstered weapons.

“I like the outfit. I’d heard you picked up the armor. Very pretty.” He gestured toward Jag’s rifle. “Nice hardware, too. Is it _really_ necessary?”

 _Stang. He even sounds like Jorg_. “Says the man with eight blasters tucked into his jacket.”

The man chuckled. “Fair point, but I figured you’d be disappointed in me if I didn’t come prepared.”

“Depends on your definition ‘disappointed.’”

The man’s smile faded and was replaced by a mild scowl. “You’ve got a funny way of saying you’ve missed someone.” He was still slowly closing the distance between himself and Jag.

“Ten years.” He shook his head in what seemed like mock disgust. “Ten years, and this is the hello I get?”

The man was only two meters from Jag when the bounty hunter’s usual restraint and self-control disappeared. It may have been the arrogance in the man’s voice, or perhaps it was the pain from the news of Mech’s death.

He couldn’t pinpoint the source of the rage that was suddenly pumping through his veins; he just knew he didn’t care. Jag let the spike of adrenaline take hold. The man took another step, and the instant Jag heard the sound of the boot strike the duracrete floor, he lunged.

The imposter was ready. His sidestep was almost casual, but his backwards elbow jab was not. It caught Jag between the helmet and back plate, one of the armor’s few vulnerabilities. A white flash of pain filled his vision as he went sprawling into the floor.

As his armored torso slammed into the duracrete, Jag braced himself for the killshot that was surely to follow. After a second or two that felt like minutes, the shot did not come. Rifle still in hand, he thrust himself forward along the floor with his arms, tucking his feet to his chest and popping up into a firing stance with whatever agility he had left, and snapped the rifle into firing position.

Unfortunately, there was no longer only one target. In the few seconds he had been knocked to the ground, two Herglics, one with extraordinarily black skin, the other a dark orange, had seemingly materialized next to the man. For the first time in longer than he could he remember, he froze with fear.

“Uh oh.”

The man smiled and produced a nasty-looking blaster. “Yes. It appears the cunning Jag Girran has underestimated his opponent.”

The Herglics, at least were unarmed. Then again, each one was at least three meters tall. This was not going to be easy. The human member of the trio began another slow advance toward Jag, though a bit less cavalier than before.

“You really thought it would be that easy You’re here because of me. Because I wanted you here. Because I led you here, to this building. And you think you have the advantage over _me?_ ”

Jag said nothing and remained motionless. His eyes darted back and forth as he studied the Herglics, trying to identify a weakness. His audio receptors, still enhanced from before, were on the verge of bursting his ear drums with the cacophony they were pumping into his brain.

The proximity indicator on his HUD indicted two more beings approaching from behind. They weren’t Herglics, that much was certain. Unfortunately, he didn’t know what they were, so their lethality was hard to gauge in the few seconds he had left.

“It’s really the least I could do,” the man continued. “Not only did you practically dance into our arms, you led us to _every—single—person_ that matters even the slightest bit to you.” He drew another one of the previously concealed blasters from his jacket and aimed it at Jag. “You’re going to die—alone, scared, and overmatched—without ever knowing why.”

_The hell I am._

“Those savages on Surellia won’t have a chance.”

_Surellia?_

Jag’s mind went blank. There was no longer a man and two monstrous beings next to him threatening certain death. There was only a single thought ricocheting throughout his consciousness.

_Surellia…_

Time all but grinded to a halt. Suddenly he was able to determine the exact distance from himself to the two humanoids approaching from the rear. He knew the trajectory of the blaster bolts that the man pretending to Bregen would inevitably fire. He knew how quickly the Herglics and their massive talon-like hands would be within striking distance.

Suddenly he knew he was going to survive.

The imposter must’ve sensed what was about to happen. He tried to shout a warning to the pair behind Jag, but Jag was already in motion. He dropped to his right knee and tucked into a roll that sent him backwards at a forty-five-degree angle. As he started the roll, his shooting hand firmly gripped the rifle while his other pulled a blaster from his left hip.

The humanoid, a Zabrak, was clearly not expecting Jag’s maneuver, and took the full impact of Jag’s armored shoulder directly to the knee. He heard the sickening _pop_ the Zabrak’s knee practically explode and kept moving.

Jag completed the roll with his legs driving his torso vertically despite the weight of the now disabled Zabrak on his shoulders. He shrugged the enemy’s body free as he drew himself to his full height and brought his weapons to bear. The pistol in his left hand was already aimed at the other being—a brutish Weequay—who was now to Jag’s left.

The attacker hesitated for only a second, which was all the time Jag needed. His left trigger finger didn’t relent for the next several seconds. By the time he stopped firing, his mind was already focused on his other adversaries.

A stream of blue bolts exploded from the rifle toward the imposter, but the target was already on the move. Jag heard the Weequay’s body fall to the ground and he turned his body with the rifle as he tracked the imposter’s movement across the room. At the same time, he brought the blaster in his left hand across his body and under his right arm to fire at the downed but still living Zabrak.

The man was in a full sprint toward one of the alcoves Jag had spotted earlier. One of the Herglics was trying to keep pace but was quickly falling behind while the other had started to charge Jag. He spared a quick glance at the Zabrak to confirm the kill while trying to plan a defense against the 800-kilogram mass that was rapidly approaching.

Herglics, renowned for their enormous statures, had thick skins that provided considerable protection against blaster fire. While enough shots to a wounded area would probably do the trick, Jag didn’t see any wounds. He had heard that Herglics’ biological structure was atypical compared to humans in respect to organ placement, but anything beyond that was a guess.

The hulking beast was only five meters away now, and Jag needed a decision. He holstered the pistol and steadied the barrel of the rifle with both hands. The Herglic’s skin was scarred and checkered with pock marks that were likely old blaster burns. The area around its massive head was particularly disfigured; it was clear that most of the Herglic’s previous opponents had taken their chances on the head being a weak point. Clearly, they had guessed wrong.

Jag was practically within the reach of the Herglic when he snapped into action. He still had no plan. His moved based on instinct and adrenaline. As he darted to his right, the Herglic swung at him with its massive left claw but failed to connect. It tried to slow its momentum and match Jag’s move; meanwhile, Jag pushed off his right foot and sprinted toward the Herglic’s flank. The Herglic reached back with its right arm, preparing to deliver a devastating blow.

Jag waited until the arm started to come forward before changing directions again. He ducked into a sideways roll to his left, barely dodging the Herglic’s punch in the process. With the massive beast now off balance, Jag sprang to his feet and ran at the Herglic’s exposed back. As he prepared to plant and leap, the Herglic began turning around. Deciding this was his only shot, he fired his jetpack and launched himself at the scarred mass.

It was by the slightest of margins that he landed on the Herglic’s back, but had it not been for the overall-like shirt it was wearing, Jag would have been thrown halfway across the room. Jag held on to the fabric with all his might while the Herglic twisted back and forth violently, trying to fling Jag free. He dug his boots into the Herglic’s back and started climbing toward its head, dodging the massive claws as they futilely tried to grab hold of him.

As he climbed, he did his best to deliver sharp punches and kicks, though his efforts didn’t seem to inflict much pain. Once he finally reached the Herglic’s head, he grabbed the fabric of the shirt as tightly as possible with his left hand and grabbed his rifle.

He jammed the barrel into the Herglic’s blowhole and opened fire. The Herglic’s body began to spasm for a few moments as if it had suddenly been wired with enough power to run a Star Destroyer, then stiffened before starting to topple. Jag maintained his balance as the huge corpse fell forward and jumped free just before it crashed to the ground.

Jag gathered himself and look at the carnage surrounding him. The Weequay, Zabrak, and Herglic all lay dead with their fatal wounds still smoking. The other Herglic and the man masquerading as Bregen were nowhere to be seen, but he suspected they were still somewhere in the area. An eerie silence descended upon the room and save for the blaster burns in the walls and floor, it looked much as it did when he first entered.

The silence broke abruptly as the other Herglic and the imposter emerged from the shadows, the man’s blasters still in his hands. Jag squared his body and swung his rifle back to firing position.

“Quite the show. You certainly don’t disappoint.”

Jag noticed the Herglic’s stride hesitate slightly as the man spoke casually of the Herglic’s counterpart’s demise. “But, like most of what you’ve done over the last few months, it was all for naught.”

“What do you know about Surellia?” Jag asked, not interested in fueling the man’s goading.

The man cocked an eyebrow then smiled. “Oh, we know plenty.”

 _We._ Jag felt his stomach turn. _Oh good._

“We know you’ve done everything you possibly could to keep it a secret. We know it’s where you call home. We know what their defenses are capable of.” The man’s grin disappeared and his eyes narrowed. “And we know just how weak those defenses really are.”

The man started to pace to Jag’s left, his blasters still trained on Jag who held his ground. “And, perhaps the sweetest part of all this: we know that you never saw us coming.”

The dots suddenly started to connect in Jag’s mind. Blaise. Campellun. Mech’s murder. The Hydian attacks. Bregen’s imposter.

“ _Beskade_ never died. You just carried on without us.” Jag swallowed hard and tried to ignore the pit forming in his stomach. “And now you’re coming for us.”

“‘ _Us?_ ’” the man shot back. “No ‘us.’ Not anymore, at least. We took care of Bregen a long time ago. We took care of _all_ of your fellow deserters. It’s just you, Jag—you, and everything that you’ve let yourself care for.”

“All this because we blew out of the _Renegade_ nine years ago?”

The man fixed him with a hard stare. “All this,” he seethed, “because you left us _to die_.” He stopped pacing. “We were supposed to be brothers, and you abandoned us.”

“You tried to kill us.”

“Death would have been a kinder fate than what you left us to face.”

Neither man said a word for several seconds. Jag spent those few seconds trying to determine the man’s identity which continued to elude him—and that was a major problem. He knew every member of _Beskade_ better than they knew themselves—their weaknesses, strengths, tendencies. The fight would have been over before it started had he known who he was up against.

The man gave the black Herglic a nod, which started forward.

“You have two options, Girran. One: you let Denru here escort you out of the building. Two: he carries you out of the building. You’ll find it’s quite difficult to walk with two broken legs.”

“Three.” Jag said as he snatched a fragmentation grenade from the back of his belt. “You die.”

The man’s eyes went wide with panic. The Herglic—Denru, as the man called him—was already reversing his direction and breaking into a run. The man followed suit and started a dash for the main entrance to the building. With the timer set to three seconds, Jag hit the activator and heaved the detonator toward the door. It landed only a meter or two in front of Denru, who again tried to reverse direction, as did the human.

The grenade detonated before either could clear the blast radius, though Denru took the brunt of the blast. Its back was ripped open, sending bits of flesh flying in all directions. The blast’s concussion sent the man reeling through the air, and he slammed face-first onto the floor about five meters away.

His jacket was shredded in multiple spots by the pieces of shrapnel now embedded in his back. Blood was already pooling on the floor around his body. The man had minutes to live, and judging from the sound of his labored breathing, that was a generous diagnosis.

“Now _that_ —” Jag used his boot to roll the man over, “was quite a show.”

The man screamed in pain as the shrapnel dug deeper into his back. He tried to grab at Jag’s leg, but received no response from his arms as they lay useless at his side. Jag cocked his head in curiosity.

“Shrapnel must’ve severed the spinal cord.” Jag delivered a swift kick to the man’s side. “Shame.”

But after he took a moment to study the man's face, Jag’s smugness vanished and his heart sank. His earlier suspicions were confirmed: the man was indeed wearing a disguise, his true identity buried under a substantial amount of synthskin. Most of it was now destroyed or clinging to the real skin in scattered pieces, exposing a face Jag had not seen in over nine years.

The face was once almost youthful—hardly innocent, but youthful all the same. It belonged to a member of _Beskade_ that Jag had come to like quite a bit after his time with the Empire, though it wasn’t a face he remembered seeing during the shootout with Blaise. He was likely on the bridge during the whole ordeal which meant his fate had been chosen for him; he couldn’t have left if he wanted to.

For a moment, Jag resented what he was about to do. Then he looked back at the three bodies riddled with blaster burns and the now mutilated Denru.

_He brought this on himself._

Still, the man was a former comrade, and he deserved some measure of mercy. Jag knelt down beside the man and removed his helmet. The labored breathing had grown weaker while the pool of blood grew larger. A few tears ran down the man’s cheeks as he coughed up a good amount of blood.

Jag crossed the man’s arms across his body and wiped some of the blood away from his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Halden.” Jag rested his blasters on his knee. “I’m sorry it ever came to this.”

Halden’s breathing had become pained wheezing, though he managed to whisper one more request.

“Please, sir.”

Jag nodded and pressed the blaster to Halden’s forehead as his eyes began to well up.

“Goodbye, old friend.”


	18. Chapter 18

By the time Jag had exited the Prennas building, the evening sky was giving way to darkness, much to Jag’s satisfaction. It had taken him considerably longer to find a way out of the Prennas building than he would have preferred, as exiting through the main entrance was not an option. Even in a less trafficked sector of the city, a grenade detonation and a firefight would have attracted substantial attention.

After using an alternative exit, Jag was back on the street he had initially used to approach the Prennas building. As he had assumed, there was a fairly large crowd gathering in front of the derelict building. He stuck to the shadows and followed a path similar to the one he used on his way in before switching to a transport shuttle for the remainder of the trip.

Even with the cooling system Mech had installed for the suit, Jag was still sweating inside his armor. It had nothing to do with the heat or even the adrenaline that was still rushing through his veins. It had everything to do with the single thought that had consumed him since Halden’s body went limp: _Save Ketlyna_.

It was frighteningly clear that his enemy knew far more about him than he did about them, which meant they knew about Ketlyna and her connection to him.

He tried to run through his combat calming techniques, but nothing seemed to work. His breathing refused to relax and his heart rate continued to pound away at an elevated rate. He did his best to remain inconspicuous on the transport, though he eventually ended up alone at one end of the shuttle while the rest of the passengers huddled together at the other. Jag managed to crack a small smile as he caught some of them trying to quickly look away after he noticed them staring.

The shuttle reached its destination five minutes later. As soon as Jag disembarked he broke into a quick trot, doing his best to avoid attention, though most of the beings in the area couldn’t help but notice a Mandalorian running down the street.

He was approaching the street that led to Ketlyna’s cantina when another knot started forming in his stomach. If anything had happened to her, he knew he would never forgive himself. Mech dying was one thing, but Mech was hardly innocent—he had certainly committed his fair share of less than admirable deeds. But Ketlyna…

_Pull it together, Jag._

He pushed his way through a small outdoor market and breathed a sigh of relief so intense it made him feel lightheaded. The cantina was still standing, clientele still entering and exiting. Jag kept his rifle on his back but drew his right blaster as he made his way to the cantina’s entrance. He was only ten or so meters away when the front of the building exploded.

For a moment, Jag lost consciousness as the concussion blast set him sprawling through the air. He landed jarringly twenty meters away; his head slammed against the stone avenue and his rifle was knocked loose. A minute passed before he was able to sit up, but even then, he was heavily disoriented.

His vision was hazy, and from the way the world around him seemed to spin, he knew that trying to stand would not end well. To make matters worse, his helmet’s display was trying to compensate from the blow to the head, and the swirling display had him on the verge of vomiting.

No longer able to tolerate the nauseating display inside his helmet, Jag ripped his helmet off and took several a pair of deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure. Instead, he broke into a fit of coughing as the thick smoke billowing out of the cantina filled his lungs. Jag frantically searched the immediate area for his rifle, though he had to do so while crawling on his hands and knees.

He eventually located the rifle, just in an unexpected spot. A young Bothan with beige and black fur—he couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old—was standing with his back pressed against the building behind him, clutching the rifle tightly to his chest, a look of absolute terror in his eyes.

Jag slowly moved up on to one knee, then tested his balance after shifting into a crouch. He still felt awful and dizzy as ever, but it would have to do. He drew himself up to full height and approached the young Bothan cautiously, his helmet tucked under his arm.

His head was pounding, and if the increased nausea even after removing his helmet was any indication, he was stuck with a mild concussion. He reached out his right hand to take the rifle, but didn’t try to grab it—he just waited patiently. The Bothan looked nervously from Jag to the rifle and after a brief moment of contemplation, extended his arms and returned the weapon to its owner. Jag nodded in thanks, slapped the rifle to his back, and then removed a small holdout blaster from his utility belt.

“Here.” He handed the boy the blaster. “It’s more your size.” The young Bothan snatched the gun away before Jag could blink and he disappeared into the hysterical crowd.

Jag turned his attention back to the cantina. Emergency personnel were already arriving. Security officers were trying to usher the mob scene away from the building while fire control speeders started blasting flame-retardant foam at the cantina’s exterior. Jag fastened his helmet back into place and looked for who appeared to be the weakest security officer.

_Save Ketlyna._

Jag found his target and broke into a sprint. He nearly toppled over at first. His already pounding head was erupting with pain as each step seemed to slam his brain against his skull. Black spots began to form along his peripheral vision, but he gritted his teeth and willed himself forward.

The security officer saw him coming. It was a Jenet, which already put the advantage in Jag’s favor. The officer tried to draw his blaster in time, but Jag closed the distance far too quickly. He unloaded with his left fist across the Jenet’s face and the officer crumpled almost instantly.

Jag continued to sprint as quickly as his body would allow. Nearby security officers who saw his assault of the Jenet were shouting at him to stop while others fired warning shots in his direction. One of the shots actually grazed his armor, and while the _beskar_ absorbed it without incident, it was enough to cause Jag to falter slightly. Instead of cleanly bursting through the still blazing entrance of the cantina, Jag fell and rolled awkwardly through the flames.

The scene inside the cantina was far grimmer than that of the exterior. Most of the main room was engulfed in flames. The cantina’s fire suppression system was useless thanks to the blast that had ripped open parts of the building’s façade, and the gallons of various liquors and other beverages only fueled the inferno. Hoping his armor would do its job and hold off most of the flames, Jag started picking his way through the debris and bodies.

Jag grimaced as he made his way toward the center of the bar area, where the crowd was likely the largest at the time of the blast. He had seen plenty of destruction and death during his life, but even he wasn’t desensitized enough to ignore the horrific carnage before him. He did what he could to avoid stepping on body parts but could only do so much.

He hopped onto the bar top and slid across to the server’s side where he found several bodies on the ground. He counted two Twi’leks and three humans—or at least humanoids. Some had burns too severe to allow for any kind of identification.

Jag’s already racing heart sped up even more. He frantically started checking the humanoids for a tattoo on the left hip, but his search was futile—the bodies were too badly burned. He jumped back across the bar and headed for the booth where Ketlyna had pulled him into the concealed corridor only a few hours prior. Most of the wall had been blown apart already, though it didn’t appear to be the result of the explosion. The cut was too precise—someone had used a laser cutter.

Jag pushed his way through the wall and into the passageway he had traveled earlier. He passed two bodies along the way; one appeared to be in a defensive position, the other the assailant. He could hear intense blaster fire ahead, and he grew hopeful that Ketlyna was still alive. He came to a halt once he reached the secured door she had led him through hours before. This time, however, the door was open and its access panel was sparking wildly.

A group of Ketlyna’s people were barricaded behind overturned tables, firing rampantly at their attackers. Jag crept through the entrance to the room with his back pinned to the right wall as he tried to minimize his profile and identify his targets. Most of the attackers had taken cover behind nearby work stations, desks, and cabinets.

The group nearest Jag was comprised mostly of humans, though the usual mercenary types were mixed in. They all wore some sort of armor—mostly shoulder and chest protectors, and at least six of those shared a common marking. Jag felt a cold shiver shoot up his spine the instant he recognized it.

The last time he had seen that marking was nine years ago—it was painted on the wall of the _Renegade’s_ hangar. It was a symbol that had been feared, hated, and respected by military personnel, civilians, and pirates alike for several years—it was _Beskade_.

It wasn’t the _Beskade_ he and Jorg had left behind. It was something sinister now, no longer an organization of ex-soldiers simply trying to carve out a small slice of the galaxy to call their own. It had become a collection of very skilled and lethal mercenaries dedicated to one thing: slaughtering those who had wronged them, regardless of whether that offense was real or imagined.

Jag raised his rifle and aimed at the Elomin firing over the top of a computer terminal. He hesitated for a moment and glanced to the right, taking note of the other targets’ positions, then took a deep breath. While his head was still pounding from the concussion, the new rush of adrenaline had partially numbed the pain.

He exhaled and pulled the trigger. A burst of blaster fire ripped into the Elomin’s back, slamming him into the terminal. Before his body slumped to the floor, Jag had already fired into the human next to him. Five bodies were on the ground before anyone in the room realized what was happening—Ketlyna’s people or otherwise. Their blaster fire actually subsided for a moment as each side scrambled to react.

By the time any of the _Beskade_ fighters had started to return fire, Jag had killed all but two of them. Each one tried to reposition themselves behind better cover, but all they accomplished was exposing their backs to Ketlyna’s allies, who promptly cut them down.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of burned flesh and smoke from blaster bolt-riddled barricades. Jag staggered forward and braced himself against a nearby terminal. His body had already started its adrenaline dump, and the effects of his concussion were once again beginning to take their toll.

A few humans started making their way around the room to verify the status of their former opponents while a Quarren approached Jag.

“Are you alright?” it asked.

“Where’s Ketlyna?” Jag ignored the question. The pounding in his head intensified and his vision was starting to blur again.

“She’s here,” the Quarren responded calmly and gestured toward another access door beyond the barricades. “And she’s safe. She evacuated with one of her lieutenants shortly after the bomb detonated.”

Jag pushed past the Quarren, still using terminals and desks for balance. “Got news for you, pal. She’s not safe.”

The Quarren grabbed Jag’s arm in a weak effort to slow him. “I assure you, she’s fine. You, however, require serious med—”

Before the Quarren could finish, Jag had spun, grabbed the Quarren’s arm and pinned it behind its back, and shoved him face-first against a nearby tabletop. He ignored the clamoring around him as blasters were aimed and charged.

“I’m not asking again, Fishy.” He pressed the Quarren’s face into the table a bit harder and tightened his pull on its arm. “I’ll filet you and feed you to the next family of nexus I find.” He glanced at the nearest human with a blaster aimed at him. “And if you think your friends here will stop me from ripping your chest apart with my bare hands, you’re sadly mistaken.”

 A brief silence passed before Jag issued another ultimatum, but not before he drew a blaster and jammed the muzzle into the back of the Quarren’s head. “Last chance.”

The human Jag had eyed a moment ago was the first to speak. “Okay, okay, just—just hold on. Hold on one minute.”

Jag relaxed the force on the blaster and drew it back a bit. The human—a brown-skinned male who looked no more than twenty years old—turned to a middle-aged human with graying hair who looked like he had seen more than his share of action.

“Just bring her back out. Room’s clear, she’ll be fine,” the younger of the two said. The older one glared at Jag for a moment, his blaster rifle still aimed at Jag. He finally sighed and lowered his rifle.

“Fine. Do it,” he barked at someone behind him.

The access door at the far end of the room opened a few seconds later and Ketlyna emerged, blaster in hand. Her steps slowed as her eyes swept over the scene in front of her. Jag grinned as he watched her head look back and forth in mild confusion, first at the _Beskade_ bodies and then at Jag. She glowered at him, and he was taken aback by how angry she actually looked.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too. And yes, you’re welcome from saving your collective butts.”

Her scowl only worsened. “Dammit, Jag, you could’ve been killed!”

Jag released the Quarren and shoved him away, then deliberately looked at the pile of bodies around him and shrugged. “I guess in theory, sure.”

Ketlyna rolled her eyes and walked over to Jag. He draped his right arm over her shoulders for support as she guided him toward her squad’s barricades. His vision was still blurry, but now the slight spinning sensation had returned.

“You’re not safe here,” he said as quietly as he could.

“You don’t say. I was just about to run up top and grab a drink from the bar that was just blown halfway to Coruscant.”

Jag stopped walking and shifted more of his weight onto Ketlyna’s shoulders, forcing her to stop as well.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. Those men—” he jabbed a thumb toward the _Beskade_ corpses, “are ex-Imperial SpecOps.” He looked toward her squad, most of whom were making no effort to hide their attempt at eavesdropping, and rolled his eyes in irritation.

Ketlyna motioned for one of her workers to pull a chair over for Jag.

“You want to explain why they’re coming after _my_ organization?” After lowering him into the seat, she crossed her arms and positioned herself between him and her squad. “The last time we talked, you said you couldn’t tell me anything because it would put me in danger.” She opened her arms in a grand sweeping gesture. “I’d say your theory was a bit off.”

“Fine.” Jag sighed—it was more of an angry hiss—and slumped back in the chair.

_If only this kriffing headache would stop._

“They’re here for me. Well, me and anyone remotely associated with me.”

When he didn’t continue, Ketlyna raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “And?”

“They call themselves _Beskade_. Used to be a mercenary-slash-pirating outfit. Ran operations throughout the Colonies and Inner Rim shipping lanes for a few years after Skywalker took out the first Death Star. They disbanded—or so I thought—shortly after Zsinj’s uprising.

“However, before _Beskade_ was founded, most of the guys served in a highly classified Imperial special operations unit—stang, it was practically a kriffing death squad—known as Scimitar. People in the know regarded it as second only to Vader’s 501 st. Assassinations, organized crime bust-ups, precision raids, that kind of stuff. They did it all.”

Jag trailed off as his thoughts began to dwell on Mech, whom he had told the same story only a few days ago. He had told a more detailed version then, but the basics had not changed. He shook away the thoughts and refocused on the present situation. Ketlyna was still staring at him along with the rest of her squad. Jag expected some sort of biting remark, given her expression, but she said nothing. Her lieutenant, however, did.

“That’s a lovely bedtime story, Girran,” he said, stepping forward. “Still doesn’t explain what they’re doing here.”

Jag cocked an eyebrow at the remark. There was something in the lieutenant’s voice that was just not… _right_. The man’s demeanor had also shifted significantly. Only a few minutes earlier he had stood by passively, seemingly nothing more than a curious bystander. Regardless, dodging the question would accomplish nothing. Ketlyna needed to know the extent of the danger he had brought to her doorstep and, more importantly, what she needed to do to stay alive.

“They’re here because of me.”

Ketlyna didn’t react, as she had probably pieced that together following their earlier conversation in her office. Her squad members, however, started murmuring to each other, some shifting uncomfortably. Jag made a mental note to keep an eye on the more skittish looking ones. The last thing he needed was a premature death at the hands of an overanxious trigger finger.

“By all means, please continue,” the lieutenant said. Jag’s eyes narrowed. That voice…

“I was a member of those units.”

The lieutenant nodded, almost knowingly. He was standing next to Ketlyna at this point, whose expression had softened. Jag continued.

“We turned our backs on the Empire after an operation went bad— _real_ bad. That was when _Beskade_ started. Some of the guys were big into classical combat styles and weaponry; that’s where we came up with the name. A _beskad_ is a fairly vicious Mandalorian sword—it was an appropriate moniker given our nature.”

Ketlyna and the lieutenant both gave him a look of impatience.

“Right. Uh, anyway—there came a point where it was clear some of us had limits while others did not. Things got ugly pretty quickly and I ended up on my own. Never looked back.”

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows as if he was waiting for more.

“That’s it? That’s _all_ you have to say?”

Jag cocked his head slightly and stared at the man. Now that the lieutenant had his full attention, there was something…something he should have noticed before…

_Oh, fragging hell._

He sprang out of his seat and snatched his rifle off his back. In that same instant, the lieutenant wrapped an arm around Ketlyna’s throat and pinned her back against his chest with a blaster held to her head. She was caught by complete surprise and her blaster fell from her hand as she fought to wrestle free of the lieutenant’s grip. Every other blaster in the room snapped to attention, though some seemed confused as to which person they should target.

“Hello, Cerone,” Jag said through gritted teeth. He gave Ketlyna a glance; her eyes were wide with fear—or possibly anger…or both—but her jaw was set in determination. At the very least she would put up a fight.

Cerone sneered. “Jag Girran. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I think at this point I owe you _some_ honesty.”

Jag didn’t respond. Instead, he frantically tried to determine how many blasters were aimed at him instead of Cerone, what trajectory the shots would follow, and which of his armor’s vulnerable points were at risk. Ketlyna took a different approach.

“ _Cerone?_ Who the—you mean you—I _trusted_ you!” She delivered an ineffective elbow to Cerone’s midsection. When that failed, she let fly a torrent of insults and continued to try to wrestle free of his grip. “You kriffing son of a useless—”

She was cut short and left struggling to breathe as Cerone tightened his hold around her neck.

“That’s quite enough. I’ve got to tell you Jag, your memory’s gone to slag—or you’ve just quite the perspective on life.”

Jag eased his finger off the trigger. “What do you mean?”

Cerone laughed. “You really think all of this—” he waved his blaster toward the mess behind Jag, “is just because of a shootout nine years ago?” He shook his head in disgust. “Even for you, Jag, that’s an impressive level of narcissism.”

The onlookers shifted uneasily. While this paled in comparison to some of the situations he had experienced during his time with Scimitar, being only a few meters away from a man holding a blaster to the head of the only woman he had told he loved was a unique experience for Jag—and it wasn’t one he hoped to repeat.

“Obviously you know something I don’t. Lot of that going around lately.”

“We plan to keep it that way.” Cerone smiled. “For now.” His arm still wrapped around Ketlyna’s neck, he started retreating toward the door she had run through a few minutes earlier. “In the meantime, sweetheart here’s coming with me.”

Jag’s finger was back on the trigger and his aim refocused. Cerone’s eyes were defiant, almost daring Jag to take the shot. With his luck, Cerone had a high-grade thermal detonator rigged to detonate the minute his heart stopped or something equally sadistic.

Cerone was within a few meters of the door. None of Ketlyna’s people seemed overly anxious to act. No one wanted her blood on their hands. Jag grimaced at the thought of the fate that awaited Ketlyna at the hands of whoever Cerone was working with. He smothered the idea and erased it from his mind. Only his focus remained, along with one other thought, its imperative dictating his actions: _save Ketlyna._

A single shot was all it took. Before anyone in the room could react, Cerone’s body jerked backwards. The hand holding the blaster flailed to the right and the arm that had held Ketlyna lost some of its tension. She slipped free and dove forward toward a small outcropping along the wall. The only other movement in the room was the heads of the other beings whipping around to watch Cerone’s body fall to the ground.

Jag remained frozen in place, his rifle following its kill as it fell. A slight trail of smoke rose toward the ceiling from Cerone’s forehead. Jag slowly lowered the rifle and remained still for a moment, then slowly looked to the group of guards standing to his left. None of them seemed eager to share their traitorous lieutenant’s fate.

Eventually the shock of what happened wore off, at least for Ketlyna’s fighters. Jag, on the other hand, remained motionless as he reflected on what had just transpired. He flinched at the touch of a hand resting on his arm.

“You alright?”

“Think so.” He gently lifted her chin up and to the side to examine her neck. There was some light bruising, but nothing too severe. “Are _you_ alright?”

She shrugged. “I’ll live.” She massaged the back of her neck and winced as she turned her head to the left. “Bastard did a number, though. It’s going to be sore for a few days.”

“Yeah,” he said absently before giving her a stern look. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Ketlyna started to shake her head in disagreement then hissed in pain.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She motioned toward the mess of bodies and destroyed equipment in front of her. “We have to get this secured and back online. Not to mention the kriffing disaster upstairs.” She gave him a look of disgust and carefully shook her head. “I can’t believe you, Jag.”

“Wh—you can’t believe—what? _Me?_ What did I do?” He jabbed a finger in the direction of Cerone’s corpse. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Ketlyna gave him an exasperated sigh. “I’m not talking about that, Jag, and you know it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of that—your past, I mean. How could you keep something like _that_ from me?”

“Take a look around. That’s how. I knew it would eventually lead to this if you knew too much. I was right—I just didn’t anticipate _this_.” He motioned toward Cerone again. “Besides, they were ten steps ahead of me. As it is, they know about Sur—”

Jag cut himself off, partly because he remembered Surellia wasn’t a secret he had shared with Ketlyna, but also because something had failed to add up.

“When did Cerone start working for you?”

“Forget that. What were you going to say? ‘Sur’ what?”

“We’ll get that to later. When did you hire Cerone?”

“Around four months ago.” Ketlyna shrugged. “Came highly recommended and I needed someone with experience to handle a few of my agents.”

“Four months ago.”

“Yeah, just about. Give or take a few days. Why?”

Jag watched Ketlyna’s people work for a moment and let several scenarios run through his mind, but only one seemed to make any sense.

“I know where to go next.” He nodded toward the door that Cerone had tried to escape through. “Will that get me topside?”

Ketlyna nodded. “I’ve got a swoop stowed away you might as well take. I’ll get you to your ship, but I’m not leaving Terminus.”

He started to plead with her, but from the look in her eyes he knew he was only wasting his breath.

“We’ll refortify,” she said. “Once we lockdown, nothing’s getting through here.”

“Clearly.” Jag looked once more at the bodies strewn across the room. “You’ve got two days to get off-planet. If I come back and you’re still here, I’ll drag you off this rock kicking and screaming if I have to. But I’m not about to let you get killed over this.”

“So I’ve seen.” She smiled and threw her arms around him. “My hero.”

_Women._


	19. Chapter 19

 

ArDee had the _Spartus_ prepped and space-ready by the time Jag arrived at the docking bay. A course for Corellia was already loaded into the navicomputer and the weapons were charged.

Given the amount of _Beskade_ personnel Jag had encountered during his brief time on Terminus, there had to be a command center nearby, either in orbit or on the surface, and Jag had neither the time or desire to tangle with whatever surprises they had waiting for him.

After clearing some space in the hold, Jag loaded the swoop onto the cargo elevator and brought it aboard. He had every intention of returning it to Ketlyna, but leaving it unattended in a spaceport on Terminus was probably the worst way to ensure it returned to her.

“ArDee, report,” he said as he made his way toward the cockpit.

“All systems are operational and functioning at maximum efficiency, sir. Weapons systems are online, dampeners are functioning properly, and the sensor suite is awaiting your command—as am I, sir.”

Jag smiled. After the last several hours, he needed some sort of comfort, even if it was provided by artificial intelligence.

“I swear, ArDee, sometimes I think you’re reading my mind.”

“If only, sir. Though my circuits spark at the thought of glimpsing the madness swirling about inside your skull.”

Still grinning, Jag shook his head as he dropped into the pilot’s seat of the cockpit and angled the sensor monitor toward him. “Did Control clear us?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

The immediate scan of the area revealed nothing out of the ordinary, though with the vast amount of traffic in the skies, trying to locate a possible tail would be virtually impossible. Jag set the scan to repeat itself every fifteen seconds and raised the ship out of the docking bay. He slipped into one of the nearby skylanes for a moment before cutting to port and breaking for orbit.

When his ascent began, the scans revealed thirty-nine ships possibly matching his exit vector. The closer he drew to the atmosphere’s furthest reaches, the faster that number decreased. By the time he broke free of Terminus’ gravitational well, the number had reached zero.

_That can’t be right._

His fingers ran across the sensor monitor, changing the parameters of the scan. Unless he was being tracked by a ship with a highly sophisticated cloaking device that Jag had never heard of, there was nothing out there. After a few more inconclusive scans, Jag gave up.

“Hyperdrive?”

“Operating at optimal levels, sir.”

Jag nodded and pulled back on the hyperdrive levers, launching the ship into lightspeed. He sat back in his chair and tried to force his body—and mind—to relax. It was nearly impossible to calm either one. He was still feeling the effects of the concussion, though the pain was likely exacerbated by the whirlwind of thoughts he could not stop.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not force the image of Halden’s dead eyes out of his mind, nor could he forget the look on Cerone’s face as the blaster bolt burned through his skull. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing more than eliminating enemies, that it was a matter of survival, but he could not erase the thought that continued to linger: he was killing his brothers.

It was not his fault these men—his former comrades—had to die. Someone was pulling the strings, sending these men to their deaths, using them as pawns in an attempt to draw Jag into the open. But that person—or persons—had made a critical error and overplayed their hand. They let Jag discover their identity.

The _Spartus_ had only been in hyperspace for a little under ten minutes when proximity alarms started wailing and the hyperdrive began an emergency shutdown. The ship heaved as it dropped out of lightspeed. Jag scrambled for the controls, demanding ArDee load status reports on his monitors.

“It appears we’ve entered a gravity well, sir.”

“ _Appears?_ Half the damn ship’s shutting down! Get me details _now_.”

While he tried to figure out what was happening—all systems reported as fully operational and functioning properly—a shadow drifted across the cockpit. Jag looked up and felt his stomach turn. Silhouetted against the stars was a CC-7700/E interdiction cruiser with two refitted _CR_ -class corvettes nearby in support. Three Corporate Sector IRD fighters flew in an escort formation around the cruiser. The _Spartus_ was overmatched—and badly.

“Incoming audio, sir.”

Jag was trying to secure most of his ship’s systems before the inevitable boarding party arrived. “Run it,” he ordered as he continued to work.

“Captain Girran. You will stand down and prepare to be boarded.”

Jag recognized the voice in an instant.

“Resistance will doom both you and your ship.”

“Well aware,” he said aloud to himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he furiously tried to complete his task. He glanced out the canopy and saw a shuttle headed toward the _Spartus_. While it was a smaller ship, and in all likelihood did not hold much in terms of a boarding party, one look at the shuttle’s escort was enough to keep Jag from trying anything too daring.

He grabbed his rifle and headed down the corridor toward the ship’s airlock. About halfway there, he stopped and carefully pried a section of the wall panel away from the bulkhead, which revealed a small storage closet. He deposited his blasters and rifle in the compartment, as well as his utility belt. For a moment, he entertained the thought of leaving his armor behind but decided against it; he would need it later.

“Alright, ArDee. Execute Protocol Alpha-Three-Seven-Gamma-Nine.” He was at the airlock, making sure it sealed properly with the shuttle that had just docked with the _Spartus_. He took a deep breath and felt his heart grow heavy. “If this is it, I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”

“It has been my pleasure to serve you, sir, and I do hope you return soon.”

Jag smiled. “Me too. In the meantime, you have your orders.”

“That I do. Good luck, sir.”

“Right.” Jag took a deep breath and unlocked the hatch, then stepped back and placed his hands behind his head.

“I’m going to need it.”

***

The next several minutes went as Jag had anticipated. His helmet was removed, stun cuffs secured, and the ship searched. Only four men had come through the airlock. Had it not been the guarantee of total destruction at the hands of the three cruisers surrounding the _Spartus_ , Jag would have handled them with relative ease.

Jag was on his knees in front of the airlock with the muzzle of a blaster carbine pressed against the base of his skull, but he could hear two of the men arguing with each other as they tried to bypass his security measures and initiate a file dump. It took considerable effort not to smile.

The program he had ordered ArDee execute was one of the most sophisticated anti-slicer systems in existence, and ArDee had taken it upon himself to further enhance it. Anyone attempting to crack the program ended up chasing whatever bait ArDee strung along for them and only found the files ArDee wanted them to find.

The boarding party’s search eventually concluded and Jag was dragged through the airlock, then tossed onto the deck of the shuttle. Its interior reminded him of some of the shuttles he had used during his time with _Beskade_ —dark, dirty, and filled with an unpleasant odor. He was laying flat on his stomach, trying to keep his face from touching the deck, but his captors were not obliging. Each time he tried to raise his head, a rifle muzzle shoved it back to the floor.

A few moments later, the clanging of boots shook the deck plating, sending vibrations through Jag’s skull. He couldn’t raise his eyes high enough to see the newcomer, but judging by the heaviness of the footsteps, the approaching being was of a larger stature.

“Toss him in a holding cell,” the man ordered.

Jag recognized the voice, though that did not surprise him. Obviously, it was someone he had worked with in the past, given the recent revelation that _Beskade_ was hunting him.

“Strip the rest of his armor. I don’t want him hatching any schemes while we’re in transit.”

With the muzzle still pressed to the back of his skull, the others went about removing his armor. They rolled him onto his back to remove the chest plate and a few other pieces, but even then, he couldn’t see the face of the man giving orders thanks to a light that was being shined in Jag’s face.

Once the last piece of armor was removed and Jag had only his body glove and the few undergarments beneath it, he was dragged off the floor and forced to his knees again. The muzzle of a rifle returned to the back of his skull, forcing his gaze back toward the floor.

“Turn the cuffs up.”

Jag’s body seized with spasms from the electric currents rushing through his body as he tried to resist the stuncuffs. He briefly collapsed from the pain but someone grabbed him by the shoulder from behind and jerked him back to an upright position.

“You’re weaker than I remember, Girran,” the man said. “The soldier I knew would have at least _tried_ to endure the pain.”

Jag grimaced as another jolt of electricity surged through his arms and into his torso.

“That soldier’s long gone,” Jag croaked. “But don’t worry, there’s a new one waiting for you.”

The man scoffed. “Sure. Can’t wait to meet him.” The man motioned to one of the men standing behind Jag, then turned his back and began walking away. “In the meantime, we’ll do our best to not let you die. At least, not yet.”

For a fraction of a second, Jag felt an intense pain in the back of his head from the smack of the butt of the blaster before. He slipped out of consciousness as his body crumpled and fell to the floor. The faint smile he had before the strike lingered even when he first went limp. Had his captors known the reason for that smile, they would have never brought Jag aboard their ship.


	20. Part VI

* * *

  **Part VI: Past Lives**

_2 A.B.Y. – Two Years After the Death Star’s Destruction_

* * *

The transport ship shook violently as another concussion blast rocked the air around the vessel. A few pieces of loose equipment crashed to the floor, but the fifteen occupants held firm as their crash webbing did its job. The red light in the middle of the hold was the only light, and every man seated in the hold anxiously waited for the instant the light changed.

Despite their anticipation, there was a strange calm that about the soldiers, though it would only seem strange to an outsider studying the group. They had trained vigorously to prepare for such situations, already survived many like it, and craved the thrill of more. Their armor was a testament to their desire for action—most of it was covered with scorch marks and small dents.

The armor had sustained a great deal of punishment, as had its owners, but that was the demand of the unit. It was not the 501st, the legendary death squad that enforced the will of Darth Vader. It was Scimitar, a unit that answered to the Grand Admirals, crushed dissent within the ranks, and eliminated corruption among the Imperial Army and Navy’s officers. They removed crime lords who had outgrown their usefulness or posed threats to assets of the Empire. They hunted members of the Rebel Alliance and high-profile outlaws.

And they were effective.

One of the men stood near the middle of the holding area and gripped a rail attached to the ceiling for support, as he waited for the light to switch colors and the deck doors to slide open. His armor, like the rest of those in Scimitar, closely resembled the Phase II gear of the soldiers who had served at the end of the Clone Wars rather than the modern Stormtrooper armor. Unlike the stormtroopers, Scimitar’s armor was light gray and used colorized rank identifiers similar to old clone troopers, as well as the unit insignia stamped on their shoulders and left breastplates. The soldier standing wore armor arrayed with a dark shade of yellow, marking the man as a commander.

“Thirty seconds to the jump!” he shouted to the men around him. “Lock up your gear!”

The soldiers did as ordered. They secured their blaster rifles to the bandoliers slung across their chests and unhooked their crash webbing. Most grabbed hold of nearby bulkheads for balance as the transport shuddered from another concussion blast. One of the soldiers whose armor was decorated with blue markings—a lieutenant—chuckled at the man to his right, whose armor was absent of any additional color, when he nearly fell to the floor from the ship’s vibrations.

“Way to go, kid.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.”

The blue armored soldier waved off the apology. “Better now than when the drop doors open up at a couple thousand meters.”

“Damn rookies,” the man to the lieutenant’s left muttered.

“Knock it off, Cerone.” The lieutenant stood up and took hold of the ceiling railing. “Besh Squad, lock up!”

“Yes sir!” responded six other soldiers in unison.

They stood up—two of them wearing armor with dark green markings while the rest wore nondescript plates like that of the younger trooper—and gripped the rail for support. Another soldier with blue armor issued the same command to the other six men seated on the opposite side of the transport, and referred to them as “Aurek Squad.”

“Ten seconds!” the commander called out.

The Lieutenant tightened his grip on the railing and felt his body surge with adrenaline. His pupils dilated, his underarms started sweating, and his heart pounded away relentlessly. It wasn’t the fight that concerned him. He had full faith in his abilities and total confidence in the men around him. He could control a fight.

But the damn drops were a completely different story.

Occasionally Scimitar’s missions called for insertion into an active battle zone. This was one of those times. Given the amount of artillery fire they had encountered on the way in despite heavy air support, their transport would not have enough time to safely touch down and release the platoon. Instead, the ship would descend to a height of approximately three hundred meters, at which point the troopers on board would exit through a rear hatch, or, as was the case with the current transport, a hatch in the deck.

The soldiers’ armor was equipped with a small jetpack that contained enough fuel to slow their descent to a safe speed, allowing the jumper to come dangerously close to the surface and limit their exposure to small arms fire. It was a matter of very precise timing, and the slightest break in concentration could prove fatal. In most instances, the boosters would fire automatically, but with a drop zone as hostile as the current one, the soldiers preferred to take their chances.

The light in the middle of the hold switched to bright blue and started flashing rapidly.

“Besh Squad, _go!_ ”

The lieutenant was the first through the hatch. His body immediately inverted and his plunge toward the planet’s surface was underway. Although his armor and helmet were sealed, the intensity of the air rushing past his face still overwhelmed him at first. He squinted out of instinct but relaxed as the jump progressed.

He laughed at the mix of profanity and jubilation playing through his helmet’s speakers as his fellow soldiers made the jump. The commander had already ordered the second squad to jump, and they were not far beyond Jag’s men. The lieutenant was carefully monitoring his heads-up display as it measured the distance between his body and the ground. His heart pounded even faster now, and as the distance dropped below two hundred meters, he began to wonder if the organ would explode before the jets fired.

The lieutenant flexed his right hand, which was currently pinned to his side to reduce air resistance, and focused on the countdown. The numbers switched to a flashing red as “150m” flew by on the display. His hand slapped against a button on his hip and tongues of fire burst out of the jetpack’s exhaust ports on the armor’s back piece.

He watched the display as it continued to dial down the distance to the surface, which slowed considerably as the jets fought the pull of gravity. It read “25m” by the time his descent fully slowed. His feet touched down only a second or so later.

Jag jogged forward for a few steps once both feet were down then tucked into a sideways roll and popped into a crouch while he waited for the rest of his squad to hit the ground. One of the troopers with red markings ran toward him, offering the lieutenant a sloppy salute as he kneeled down next to him.

“Sergeant Bregen,” the lieutenant said as the red armored trooper beside him. “Yet another successful drop.”

“They never do get any easier, do they, Lieutenant?”

“Not that I can tell.”

The lieutenant quickly counted the number of squad mates scurrying to his location. Once six troopers were crouched around him, he turned east toward their target. To the north, a few kilometers away, sat what once served as a manufacturing plant for the Confederacy of Independent Systems. It was a smaller factory, originally intended to act as a secondary supply point.

It currently served as the headquarters of an Admiral Saerving in Imperial Sector Krill-4. According to the briefing Scimitar had received, Saerving had spent the last five years building a spice processing operation based across several systems that now effectively dominated the illicit drug trade in the region.

The factory on Trioegh VIII was responsible for the majority of the Admiral’s business. The compounds unique to Trioegh VIII led to the creation of a new strain of spice that was extraordinarily addictive, making it one of the most desired commodities in the illicit goods market. The lieutenant was hardly concerned with the use or sale of illegal substances unless an assignment required he be concerned. What he did take umbrage with was Imperial officers disgracing the uniform by running side operations for personal profit and using Imperial resources to further their agenda.

If their ambition was to reap fortunes from the spice and slave trade, they had no business serving in the military. Then again, with the direction the Empire had taken over the last decade—civilian massacres and violent planetary seizures had become increasingly more common—there was probably a place in the ranks for scum like Saerving.

The lieutenant’s attention was drawn back to the war zone around him as his comm clicked to life.

“Lieutenant Blaise to Lieutenant Girran, what’s your status?”

“Girran to Blaise, all heads accounted for,” he responded. He reached out toward a nearby private who handed him a pair of macrobinoculars. He sighed after a quick scan of the terrain ahead of them. “This should be fun.”

“Always is,” Blaise said. “By the way, what’s the bet this time?”

The Lieutenant looked back at his squad and shrugged questioningly.

“Crate of ale!” Sergeant Bregen called out.

“No way, we did that last time,” one of the privates said. “I say we get their next six days of leave time.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the squad and the Lieutenant nodded. “I like it,” he said. “Girran to Blaise, we’ll take your next six days of leave.”

There was a pause at the other end before the comm crackled. “Jag, you guys are _done._ ”

A few seconds later the seven members of Aurek Squad poured over the lip of the crater they had been hiding in and sprinted forward. They were not headed toward the factory; instead, they were charging toward the power plant that dominated the landscape only half a kilometer from the squad’s location. Most of its exterior defenses had been obliterated by the initial air attack and bombardment, but since that time an ample amount of ground forces had taken up positions around the perimeter of the installation. Unfortunately, the plant itself had remained mostly intact due to localized shield generators.

“You see that?” Jag said, nodding toward Aurek Squad as they tried to run straight at the plant. “Always got to do things the hard way.” He pointed to his right in the direction of a series of craters created by the orbital bombardment that had taken place a few minutes prior to their arrival. “As for us…”

“Two by two?” Bregen asked.

“You got it,” Jag replied. “I’ll take point. Covering fire on my mark.”

The squad took aim over the edge of the crater and selected their targets while Jag prepared to break for the next hole. He moved several steps back from the crater’s wall and took a deep breath.

“Light ‘em up!”

He broke into a sprint, and blaster fire erupted from the squad’s rifles as Jag bounded out of the crater and took off across the open plain. He weaved as he ran, firing shots randomly in the direction of the entrenched enemies.

“Next two, move!” Bregen’s voice boomed through the comm. The squad’s blaster fire became more sporadic as the rest of the soldiers followed Jag’s lead, spraying occasional shots as the enemy tried to pick off the runners. Jag dove into the next crater a few seconds later and immediately started providing covering fire for the rest of the squad. Bregen and the young private who Jag had kept from falling to the transport’s deck earlier were the last two to reach the crater.

“How we doing?” Bregen asked as he dropped in beside Jag.

“Pretty damn good, actually. Looks like they got pinned down shortly after that idiotic charge of theirs.”

“Figures. Looks like we’ll be saving their asses yet again.”

“At least we’re getting good at it.”

Jag raised his head over the edge and examined the situation. There were still numerous enemy soldiers between them and the powerplant’s entrance, but most of them seemed to be focused on Blaise’s squad.

“Grenades!” Jag pointed to his left then his right. “This half: thermal. Rest of you: frags.”

Each trooper unclipped two explosives from their belt and armed them. On Jag’s command, they threw the grenades across the open expanse toward the enemy soldiers.

“ _Move!_ ”

The squad charged out of the crater toward the enemy trenches, their blasters spraying suppressing fire as they ran. They were within ten meters of the trench when the grenades detonated. The explosion launched several bodies out of the trench as the grenade blasts decimated the installation’s defenses.

The members of Besh Squad came to a halt at the edge of the trench and trained their weapons on the area below them, preparing to shred anything still living with blaster fire. However, the carnage that filled the trench suggested no such display of force would be necessary. Jag grimaced at the mess of bodies in front of him. The explosives had been more than effective, as their path to the installation was almost completely clear.

Jag turned his blaster to the left of their position and opened fire, cutting down the remaining ground defenses that were firing at Aurek Squad. Their opposition now dead, Aurek Squad started to scramble out of their own crater and start for the far end of the trench. Jag, meanwhile, jumped in and started picking his way through the mangled piles of corpses.

“Better pick it up, Blaise,” Jag said over his comm. The rest of Besh Squad dropped into the trench behind him. “Commander’s not going to be happy that we had to bail your behinds out— _again_ — _and_ snagged your leave time.”

Jag held up a fist as he came to a bend in the trench and slowly peeked around the corner.

“We had ‘em, you know,” Blaise retorted.

“Of course, you did.”

As Jag leaned his head farther around the corner, laser fire erupted from a set of automatic turrets built into the duracrete base of the installation. He jerked his head back and almost lost his footing as he reeled from one of the laser bolts nicking his helmet. He removed two thermal detonators from his belt and armed them, then crouched down and tossed both in the direction of the turrets.

The ground shook as they detonated, and Jag reached out into the open and waved his arm to try to draw the attention of the turrets. When no attack came, he peeked out again then smiled in satisfaction. The detonators had obliterated the wall, the turrets, and a portion of the exterior blast door that guarded the powerplant, though most of the door was still intact.

“Cerone, get up here.” The soldier jogged forward to Jag’s position. “You got enough spare equipment to handle this?”

Cerone, the squad’s demolition specialist, nodded. “I think so. Most of what I’m carrying is for the plant. Vius and Iretta from Aurek have the majority of the stuff for the factory. I should be able to spare a little bit.”

“Good. I’ll get you an extra set of hands in the meantime.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Jag pointed to one of the all-gray armored soldiers at the rear of the group. “Halden, up front!”

“Come on, not this guy,” Cerone complained.

“That’s enough. I want this door gone in the next sixty seconds.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was obvious the two soldiers did not get along, but Jag had more important matters to worry about. He—or his commander—would handle the personality clash once they were done getting shot at. Jag headed back to where the rest of the squad was waiting.

Bregen nodded back toward Aurek Squad’s position. “Sounds like Blaise and the boys are giving up. They don’t have enough charges to breach the west entrance. Thermal detonators only took care of the exterior—same situation as us. They’re heading here now.”

Jag grinned. “Six extra days. That’s going to make for a much-needed vacation.”

“I wouldn’t bring it up over the comm if I were you,” Bregen cautioned. “Commander had some traffic for Aurek Squad a few minutes ago, he doesn’t sound happy.”

“He never is,” Jag said. “What’s the problem now?”

Bregen shrugged. “We’re taking too long. He wanted the charges set by now. We’re two minutes behind schedule.”

Jag rolled his eyes but restrained himself. It was hardly the time to start voicing any complaints about his commanding officer’s impatience, though that impatience seemed to be an increasingly common part of their missions as of late.

“Well then.” Jag slammed a fresh powerpack into his blaster rifle. “I guess we better get back on schedule.”

He was just about to chastise Cerone and Halden for taking too long when the pair came running around the corner.

“Fire in the hole!” Cerone yelled as he dove to the ground. Jag followed suit, leaping away from the corner of the trench. Seconds later the ground shuddered as the explosion ripped apart the blast door. Jag picked himself up and headed around the corner to inspect Cerone’s handiwork.

The wall and blast door, each designed to endure an immense amount of punishment, were now a mangled mess of duracrete and durasteel. The blast door was almost completely destroyed.

Jag’s jaw hung open and he stared in astonishment. “What in the blazes did you use?”

Cerone chuckled. “Daddy’s new toys.”

Jag gave the demolitions expert a sideways glance and shook his head. “You’re a bit kriffed, you know that?”

“Old news, Lieutenant,” Cerone replied with a shrug.

The rest of the squad assembled behind Jag and stacked up on opposite sides of the hole that had been blown in the wall.

“Girran to Blaise,” Jag called over the comm.

“Go for Blaise.”

“Besh Squad has breached the exterior and is preparing to infiltrate. We will report to our designated target and execute.”

“Copy that,” Blaise acknowledged. “We’re a minute or so behind you. Watch yourselves in there—Shenn’s picking up a lot of activity inside the installation.”

“Good.”

Jag raised his rifle and fell in line with the rest of the squad. He retrieved a flashbang grenade from his belt and tossed it underhand through the blast door’s hole. As soon as it detonated, the squad piled through the hole and into powerplant.

“More for us.”


	21. Chapter 21

Clearing the installation proved a far simpler task than Lieutenant Girran anticipated. Both squads successfully located their targets and placed the considerable number of explosives they had brought with them. Jag’s squad also discovered an underground tunnel that they believed connected the installation to the factory. It was in that tunnel that the members of Aurek and Besh discovered why they had encountered such little resistance inside the installation.

The two-kilometer-long tunnel was infested with enemy combatants. It seemed they had little issue with sacrificing the powerplant, and once the charges detonated and destroyed most of it, it became clear that the installation had far less to do with running the factory than they had been led to believe.

When the charges inside the powerplant did detonate, it sealed the squads in the tunnel, forcing them forward against heavy resistance. Their struggles were compounded by the fact that contact with their commander was limited due to being underground, so requesting reinforcements from the other squads or receiving updated schematics for the complex was out of the question.

They had fought their way within a kilometer of the factory when the comms crackled to life, albeit sporadically. Once Jag heard what was coming across, he would have preferred they remained silent.

“…Pinned down! We’re completely surrounded! We need…double-crossed…evac…abort—”

Jag brought his squad to a halt and slipped back to Bregen’s position.

“You copy all that?”

“Wish I hadn’t. Something’s wrong.”

“I’d say so. We need to get topside ASAP and open up the comms.”

Bregen shook his head. “I don’t know, Jag. I don’t want to hang them out anymore than you do, but we’ve got a job to do. Besides, if we try to duck out now, these bastards are going to refortify and probably follow us out.”

Jag gritted his teeth and looked back toward the enemy’s position. Leaving his comrades to die was never something that sat well with him, even when it was necessary to achieve the objective. But he had a responsibility, to the unit and to the Empire, to complete their mission, no matter the cost.

He looked back at Bregen, who was still watching him while the rest of the squad continued to pour blaster fire down the tunnel. There was an alcove several meters ahead that appeared to lead to some sort of access corridor.

_Blaise won’t like it…but that’s too bad._

“Besh Squad, form up on me!”

His six soldiers fell in line behind him while Blaise and the rest of Aurek Squad held their position and maintained their stream of blaster fire.

“What’s the plan, Lieutenant?” Halden asked.

Jag hesitated for a moment, still surveying the tunnel and considering his options. The situation demanded decisiveness, but the excess of variables was weighing on him. If what they heard on their comms was any indication, members of Scimitar were dying. Nothing he did now was going to change that. His only option was to save those still alive and somehow accomplish what they had come to this forsaken wasteland to do.

“Access tunnel, eight meters ahead!” he yelled over the din of the firefight. “Single file, suppressing fire, on my mark!”

He leaned out and ripped off several shots before ducking back. The enemy’s fire swung in his direction almost immediately when he exposed himself; sending someone through that crossfire was condemning them to death.

“Cerone! Up here now!”

Once he had the explosives-loaded trooper next to him, he pointed at the wall of the tunnel just beyond the alcove he had spotted earlier.

“I want smoke there…there,” he pointed at the ceiling, “and I want that _gone._ ”

He couldn’t see Cerone’s face, but he was certain the soldier had a grin from ear to ear.

“You got it, sir.” Cerone called over to Vius, one of Blaise’s explosives experts. “Bring the good stuff and move it!”

The two of them moved into Jag’s spot as he slid out of the way, giving them room to work. They each extracted two small canisters from their packs along with several other pieces of equipment Jag was not familiar with. Cerone counted to three on his fingers and nodded, then sent both objects tumbling down the tunnel. His counterpart did the same, but only sent them toward the center of the tunnel instead. Once the canisters started spraying thick smoke into the air and completely eliminated the enemy’s line of sight, both soldiers took off for the alcove.

Cerone got there first. He slid feet first toward his cover and popped into a crouch after he was tucked away in the alcove. Once he opened fire, Vius followed suit and slid in behind Cerone, who continued to pop out from cover and fire quick shots while Vius fiddled with his equipment. A minute later the pair was ready.

Vius had assembled a contraption that looked like a cluster of thermal detonators connected by some sort of webbing. The device was large enough that he had to hold it with two hands. Several blue lights spread across the webbing, though from Jag’s vantage point, it looked like one big jumbled mess.

Cerone crouched back into the alcove and looked back toward the two squads pressed against the sides of the tunnel. The pandemonium within the tunnel continued to intensify, almost to the point where Cerone’s command a moment later was barely audible.

“Covering fire!”

Every Scimitar rifle unloaded. Vius reared back and launched the device underhand toward the ceiling. Jag continued to fire down the tunnel but his eyes followed the path of Vius’ device. As it traveled through the air, it spread out into what looked like an electrified spider web with the thermal detonators placed along the edges. It was much larger than Jag had originally thought.

Jag wasn’t sure what the webbing material was made of, but it latched on to the ceiling with some sort of adhesive. The enemy fire faltered for a moment as they noticed the device on the ceiling only a few meters from their position. The blue lights on the webbing now appeared to be running the length of the webbing in a constant sequence that quickly accelerated. A few seconds later the device detonated.

Chunks of duracrete flew in all directions. Cerone and Vius shrank back into their alcove while the rest of the soldiers dove to the ground and tried to protect their heads. A few pieces of duracrete bounced harmlessly off Jag’s shoulders and back, but otherwise he emerged unscathed.

While the same could be said for the rest of the troopers, their enemies were not so fortunate. As Jag and Blaise led their respective squads forward, the enemy blaster fire became increasingly sporadic and eventually ceased completely.

A large amount of debris now clogged most of the tunnel and various fluids leaked from a series of damaged pipes in the tunnel’s ceiling. Multiple bodies were pinned under the larger chunks of debris while others laid motionless in pools of blood. As the squads passed by, the privates put pairs of shots into the corpses as a precaution, not wanting to be gunned down from behind.

The soldiers piled into the access corridor and broke into a run. They encountered little resistance; it was obvious the enemy had either not anticipated the maneuver or did not have the resources to guard against it. The corridor turned to the left, putting the squads parallel to the previous tunnel. After a few more minutes they had still not come across any enemy patrols.

They passed several rooms along the way whose walls were floor-to-ceiling transparisteel. Jag glanced into the rooms as they passed. Inside were multiple work stations and large monitors clustered around what appeared to be gurneys and other medical beds. That struck Jag as a bit odd, unless the administrators of the facility had decided to take the testing of their product to an extreme level.

Jag had instructed each soldier to watch for ladders or stairs that looked like exits to the surface, but so far, they had seen nothing of the sort. The last transmission Jag heard from the other squads continued to play over and over in his mind. At the rate they were going, every single one of the soldiers in those squads would probably be dead by the time they reached them.

The two squads continued to wind their way through the tunnel that they determined was always parallel to the one they had shot their way out of—until the corridor simply ended. Jag stared at the wall, utterly confused, looking back and forth between the wall and the corridor from where they had just come.

“Uh, Lieutenant?” said one of Blaise’s sergeants.

Neither Jag nor Blaise responded. No one did. They had just run a kilometer and a half—likely closer to two kilometers—without encountering any resistance, and now they stood in front of a dead end. The only doors they had passed during their run were those that accessed the rooms Jag thought may be testing rooms.

“Any ideas?” Blaise asked.

“You mean as to what we do next? Or how about how we managed to run nonstop for over ten minutes without getting shot at once?” Jag countered.

“I’m not worried about why we didn’t get shot at. They obviously threw all their weight into holding the primary tunnel.”

“Really? _That’s_ why?” Jag said angrily. “We’re staring at a _dead end_. Odds are they’re aware of it.”

“Uh, guys?” one of the privates near the rear of the formation called out. No one seemed to hear him.

“Just because this is a dead end doesn’t mean there’s no way out. Why would they waste time building this damn tunnel if—”

“Sir?”

“They’d build it for _this exact reason_ ,” Jag insisted.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Why put those labs back there then? What possible purpose could they serve if the only way to access them—”

“Guys?”

“—is by taking a three-kilometer stroll from the comm installation?”

“ _Sir!_ ”

Jag and Blaise turned to look at the private who pointed toward the corridor they had just run through. The two lieutenants trotted toward the corner and leaned around it to look down the length of the hall, and instantly wished they hadn’t.

Standing in silent formation were approximately fifty fully equipped soldiers with their weapons drawn and aimed directly at the men of Scimitar. Jag looked at Blaise and jerked his thumb toward the small army assembled in front of them.

“ _That’s_ why they built the damn tunnel.”

*** 

No shots were fired at first, but Jag assumed that had to do with their enemy attempting to psychologically torture them before they blasted them into the next galaxy. Unfortunately for the enemy, they were facing members of Scimitar, which was comprised entirely of the some of the most hardened beings in the galaxy. Facing certain death did not faze them.

Jag, Blaise, and their sergeants used the brief amount of time available to hatch something resembling an escape plan. Their options were limited.

Cerone’s suggestion had been straightforward. “Blow a hole in the wall, hope for the best. Lay down covering fire, get everyone through. Take it from there.” They had yet to come up with anything better.

Jag would have preferred they try to escape through the ceiling, but given the height of the corridor and their lack of knowledge about the structure’s layout, it was not a viable option. For all he knew, the ceiling was stocked with fuel lines, and detonating just an ounce of whatever Cerone and Vius had stashed away in their packs anywhere near those lines would take care of their situation pretty quickly.

“Cerone, Vius, get to work,” Jag ordered. “Bregen and Shenn, grab Halden and Siri and throw everything you’ve got at them. Blaise—”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll back them up.”

Jag shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’re leading these physics professors through whatever sized hole they put in this wall. The rest of the privates are going with you. Once you’re all clear, we’ll start falling back.”

“No way,” Blaise said stubbornly.

Jag’s temper started to flare. “Dammit Blaise, we don’t have time—”

“No way you’re taking Shenn with you.” Blaise looked at the stockier soldier and shrugged. “With the way he shoots you’ll all be dead in under a minute.”

Jag grinned and slammed a fresh power pack into his rifle. “Don’t let me down, boys. I’ve got grand plans on how I plan to spend Blaise’s vacation.”

Cerone had the charges in place quickly and the two squads took cover as best they could. Jag tensed and grabbed his only remaining thermal detonator as Cerone counted down from five with his fingers. When only one finger remained up, Jag whipped his rifle around the corner, finger on the trigger, and launched the detonator underhand as hard as he could.

The power of the blast from Cerone’s charges almost knocked Jag out from behind his cover. He felt a few pieces of debris from the wall pelt his back, but otherwise he remained mostly unscathed.

The three troopers next to Jag tossed their own detonators and opened fire. The first line of enemy soldiers dropped immediately and the second wasn’t far behind. Jag was working on cutting down the third when barricades seemed to materialize from thin air. Blaster-proof shields rose from the floor, providing cover for the remaining soldiers.

“Blaise, how we doing?” he shouted into his helmet’s microphone. He received no response. “Blaise, what’s your status?”

A few more seconds passed without a response so he glanced over his shoulder. Blaise and the others had disappeared through the hole in the wall, but the opening was dark, revealing nothing of what lay beyond. Jag decided that charging into whatever lay in wait beyond that threshold was a far more favorable alternative to facing the twenty or so enemy combatants still firing away at his current position.

“Halden and Siri, fall back!”

The two privates fired off a few more shots then turned and took off for the hole. Bregen moved closer to Jag but remained standing, firing over top of him. Jag’s rifle beeped several times indicating this power pack was about to go dry. He ducked back into cover and slapped in another charge.

Bregen was still blasting away, refusing to ease off the trigger. Jag slipped behind him, then stood up and tapped Bregen’s shoulder, signaling him to break off and head for the hole. Jag opened fire again as Bregen fell back.

The enemy soldiers had figured out fairly quickly what was happening and had been advancing toward the dead end, leapfrogging from cover to cover. Jag had to respect the way in which his adversaries had funneled Scimitar into the dead-end corridor.

Jag fired off a few more shots before turning and running for the hole Cerone had made in the wall. As he ran, it occurred to him that all the enemy soldiers had needed to do was toss a few thermal detonators around the corner in order to make short work of Jag’s men.

They had instead opted to shoot it out, a strategically baffling decision that he only now had time to process. The only explanation, he determined as he hurried through the hole in the wall, was that someone had known…

He never completed the thought. All the soldiers who had gone ahead of him were nowhere to be seen.

“Not good.”

He was in a dimly lit corridor that was far smaller than he expected or preferred. It appeared to be about twenty meters long and would have forced the squad to progress in single file; it was a perfect choke point. The corridor was silent save for the soft whirring of concealed machinery. Given how far they had pressed forward before hitting the dead-end, Jag guessed he was likely near the heart of the factory.

Jag glanced over his shoulder and dialed up his audio receptors. He was not being pursued which made his current predicament all the more unsettling. Though there was barely half an arm’s length of space to spare on either side, Jag pressed against the left wall of the corridor and started forward.

After he had gone about ten meters a blast door suddenly dropped into place behind him, sealing him in. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as the coldest of chills raced up his spine. The only thing his audio receptors picked up was his intensified breathing. His eyes darted back and forth while his grip on the rifle tightened.

As he approached the end of the narrow corridor, he dared to hope he would escape unharmed and face whatever awaited him around the corner. That hope vanished as the familiar sound of a hatch opening registered on his audio receptors. He took a quick step back then whirled on that foot and swung his rifle in as wide an arc as the tight quarters would allow.

His balance failed him as his rifle found only empty air and clanged against the wall. He let his weight fall against the wall then pushed back to regain his footing. There was nothing behind him save for the blast door that had closed moments ago.

In that instant he knew he was beaten. He didn’t need to wait for the pain from the blow to the back of his head to realize he had fallen for a simple trick of misdirection. He fell to the floor awkwardly and lost his grip on the rifle. He heard several more hatches open and at least four sets of feet scrambled to surround him.

One of the beings that had rushed to secure him ripped his helmet off and replaced it with a black hood that destroyed any possibility of him getting a sense of where he was in the facility. The being pinned Jag’s head to the floor with a knee to the neck while Jag’s hands were cuffed behind his back.

“Get him up and out with the others. Boss is about ready.”

One thought kept racing through Jag’s mind.

Scimitar had been betrayed.


	22. Chapter 22

Jag had no way of knowing how far they had traveled since the ambush. The hood his captors had pulled over his face successfully kept him disoriented, and with them dragging him by the arms, he could not track the distance based steps taken. For a brief time, he tried to count the steps of those dragging him but gave up after the first hundred steps.

They made several turns, but he had lost track of the direction they were currently headed. The air temperature changed at various points, usually dropping several degrees before returning to normal. Jag had noticed that the drops occurred when passing through sets of doors; he assumed those sections were open to the mines or processing areas.

Eventually he heard another set of doors open but there was no accompanying blast of cool air. Instead, the air was filled with shouts of profanity and anger. The acoustics of the room suggested it was fairly large with an unusually high ceiling. The source of the shouts drew closer as Jag was dragged toward what he figured to be the middle of the room.

“What are you grinning at? Huh? Don’t whisper to your little friend, bring that scrawny rear end over here and say it again. Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Jag allowed a small smile. At least he had found Blaise.

“You poke me with that blaster one more time and you’re not going to like where it ends up.”

He found Bregen, too.

Jag’s captors tossed him toward the others. He landed hard on his left shoulder, jarring it a bit. One of the men who had been dragging him ripped the hood from his face, and he had to squint as the room’s bright lighting assaulted his eyes. That same man also removed the binders and Jag took advantage of the new freedom of movement, swinging his arms in half circles to loosen his shoulders.

His eyes adjusted to the lighting fairly quickly. The first thing he noticed was the pair of guards that had moved into position behind him, each holding rifles aimed in his direction. Next, he saw the members of both Aurek and Besh squad pressed together in the middle of the room, their helmets removed. Cerone glanced in his direction and nodded.

“Evening, Lieutenant.”

Jag gave him a mock salute and continued studying the rest of the room. The ceiling was fairly high as he had previously surmised, and the room was cavernous with two levels of grated walkways running along three sides of it with two running across the room to the far wall where they gave way to sealed blast doors. There were two crane-like mechanisms protruding from the ceiling while large metal plates were built into the floor of the room directly beneath them. The room looked like some sort of loading center.

The suspended walkways were filled with soldiers dressed in the same black armor as those Jag and his men had been fighting only minutes earlier. They were positioned at seven-meter intervals along the walkways, all of them armed—and all of them aiming at the unarmed Scimitar captives.

Bregen worked his way over to Jag and leaned in, keeping his voice hushed.

“Doesn’t look good. From what Blaise and I can figure, the stooges on the walks are just the front line. Got guys ready to roll behind concealed doors on the main level, just like they did in that damn corridor we tried to cut through.”

Jag nodded in agreement. “Sounds about right. This factory’s a massive death trap waiting for the right group of idiots to coming storming in.”

“And we’re those idiots.”

“Seems so. Except we didn’t exactly volunteer to raid this dump, did we?”

Bregen asked as shot Jag a sideways glance. “What are you getting at?”

Jag turned to face him and started counting on his fingers. “One: there is _no_ way our intel people are this bad. They should have known about the concealed hatches along those corridors.”

“Could have been recent installments that wouldn’t show up in the older blueprints,” Bregen countered.

“True. But that doesn’t change number two. Our first priority was that blasted comm tower. I didn’t think of it until it was too late, but why bother? The cruiser that brought us in could have jammed their transmissions or at least intercepted anything leaving the planet. Think about it. All that was gained out of us taking that installation was finding that Force-forsaken tunnel.”

Bregen didn’t try to argue the point.

“And where did we go from there? When did the resistance _really_ intensify?”

“At the alcove.”

“Exactly. They funneled us in there, and then straight to here. They _knew_ we would take the tunnel out of the installation, _knew_ we would take that secondary corridor, and they _knew_ we’d be trapped and try to blast our way out of that dead end.

“Jorj, we were set up.”

It wasn’t until that point that Jag realized his fellow soldiers had fallen silent and turned their attention to Jag’s narrative. Bregen remained silent and his expression darkened; the rest of the men seemed to share that sentiment. Naturally, it was Blaise who broke the silence.

“Well, Professor, who did it?”

Jag shrugged almost nonchalantly. “Who never made the jump?”

Blaise and Bregen looked at each other, then to the rest of the men, the same look of recognition beginning to play across their faces.

“I was the first one to go from my squad,” Blaise said. “But Vius, you were the last, right?” Vius nodded in affirmation. “Was he still there when you jumped?”

The Aurek Squad demolitions expert hesitated for a moment before setting his shoulders to answer. “Sir, Commander Thorin was still aboard our dropship when I made my jump.”

“Of course, I was.”

Every head in the group of Scimitar soldiers turned toward the voice simultaneously. A man had appeared along the higher walkway directly in front of the men, though his uniform and armor looked nothing like that of the black-clad men around him. It did, however, look identical to the soldiers of Scimitar’s armor.

“You didn’t think I would take a chance in that disaster of a dropzone, did you?” the man asked mockingly. “Especially when I hard far more pressing matters to attend to.”

“I’m sure you did, _Commander_ …like making sure we wound up dead.”

There was no murmur of surprise among the privates in the two squads. They all understood what had happened—and was about to happen—to the unit.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Commander Thorin started across one of the walkways that passed above the group of captives. “There were benefits to you surviving. If I’d really wanted you wiped out, you wouldn’t have any legs left to stand on.”

“Get a little closer and you’re not going to have a throat left!” Blaise barked.

Jag placed his hand on Blaise’s shoulder, knowing it would do little to calm the man, but hoped it would at least keep him quiet for a few minutes.

“What about the other squads?”

“They’re…being dealt with,” Thorin said.

All the hours of training and drills designed to help Jag control and smother his emotions during combat were quickly failing him. The man he had followed into battle and whose orders had resulted in the deaths of his comrades on previous missions was now smugly revealing a betrayal Jag never suspected.

His anger seemed limitless. He was disgusted that a fellow soldier, one he respected—and above all, trusted—had thrown in his lot with scum like Admiral Saerving all in some effort to build a private fortune. Jag wondered how many of their missions had been fabricated assignments designed to further Thorin’s dominance of the drug market.

Without a doubt, Jag decided, the worst offense was sending the men of Scimitar to their eventual deaths while at the same time sacrificing the soldiers that had tried to slow Scimitar’s advance. He was letting the two groups wipe each other out in order to cover his tracks. From a tactical standpoint, the commander’s strategy was sound, but that didn’t change the fact that Jag wanted to slowly skin Thorin alive.

“So that’s it?” Bregen called out. “You dragged us here to die? All these wasted resources for _that_? Why not just blast one of our dropships out of the sky?”

“Quite simple, Sergeant Bregen: loose ends. Here—” he made a sweeping gesture, “—the only question is why Intel failed to properly gauge the enemy’s strength and capabilities.” Thorin leaned forward, bracing himself against the rail of the walkway. “It also gave me the opportunity to take care of Saerving’s men.”

The Scimitar soldiers exchanged confused glances, save for Jag, who kept his eyes locked on Thorin.

“What are you talking about, Thorin?” he asked.

“Admiral Saerving was far too great a liability—as were those loyal to him. But thanks to your lethality, that glitch in my plan has been corrected. Allow me to express my gratitude.

“However, you do have a final decision to make, Lieutenant. The elimination of Saerving and his men has left a hole in the ranks. You and your men will live—so long as you join me.”

Thorin raised his arm and held it still, and the muzzle of every blaster rifle in the room took aim at the Scimitar soldiers. Jag’s rage was still welling up. Though he had always expected to eventually die in combat—he had barely escaped the clutches of death far too many times already—dying helplessly at the hands of a traitor was unacceptable.

Equally unacceptable was serving as an expendable foot soldier for a glorified drug lord, which is precisely how Thorin planned to use Jag and his men if they agreed to his proposal. Given this treachery, it would likely be sooner rather than later that Thorin sent them on yet another mission intended to bring about their demise.

Jag looked around at his men. Some were anxious and scared; they undoubtedly felt helpless as they prepared to die. Some of the men—none of whom belonged to Besh Squad—appeared to be considering the offer, likely out of desperation—or worse, cowardice. They were entitled to their own decisions, but he intended to die in a manner becoming of his rank: honorably.

The body language of Blaise and Bregen indicated they planned to follow his lead. Surprisingly, most of the privates among the two squads stood their ground as arrogantly as their commanding officers.

Then one of the men from Blaise’s squad stepped forward and declared his intentions to join Thorin.

That particular soldier—a private named Cherdek—was standing foolishly close to Blaise. The lieutenant swiftly kicked in Cherdek’s knee from the side, which dislocated with an audible _pop_ that turned Jag’s stomach. The younger soldier collapsed in a heap while screaming in pain.

Jag was stunned when Thorin issued no signal or command to open fire. Instead, he looked on in what appeared to be twisted amusement.

“Lieutenant Blaise, that was hardly necessary. Private Cherdek didn’t deserve that.”

“The hell he didn’t. But hey, why don’t you come on down? We’ll talk it out.”

“You’d be a bit less cavalier if you knew what I know about the future of your unit, Lieutenant,” Thorin retorted. After Blaise hesitated and shot a glance at Jag and Bregen, who could only offer confused shrugs, Thorin continued.

“Do any of you really think the Emperor or Vader would allow a unit as lethal as this to exist under a command other than their own? Scimitar is not long for this galaxy, not with your abilities beginning to rival that of the 501st. Besides,” he said with a sarcastic smile, “many of you are far too noble for their liking.”

Jag scoffed. “ _Noble_? We’re an _assassination squad_. Exactly how noble can we be?”

“That’s not a determination I’m inclined or required to make. Regardless, my opinion is irrelevant. Men ranked far higher than I with far more resources have made that determination. You and your men are marked, Lieutenant.”

Bregen cursed under his breath before muttering, “This is a kriffing mess.”

Jag nodded then whispered back. “He’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m obeying another order of his.”

“Right with you, boss,” Bregen said. The rest of the soldiers within earshot murmured their agreement.

After a moment Blaise offered a shrug of indifference. “We had a good run.”

Jag nodded and returned his attention to Thorin, who, even from a distance, was visibly irritated. It was clear he had expected to salvage at least a few of his prized operatives, but he had underestimated their pride.

“So be it,” Thorin growled, his voice darkening. “You had your chance.”

But before Thorin could order his men to open fire, the roof of the room exploded along with the wall on the left side of the lower walkway. The members of Scimitar dove for cover while trying to protect their heads from the duracrete and durasteel that rained down on them. The lower walkway buckled from the explosion and the section to the left of the newly formed hole gave way, sending the soldiers standing on it flailing toward the ground.

As Jag tried to sprint—it was more of a labored stagger—to where Thorin’s soldiers had fallen on top of one another, he glanced toward the ceiling in time to see several ropes falling to the ground with the members of Dorn Squad rapidly descending toward the floor, their blasters ripping into the stunned soldiers that still lined the walkways.

Across the room, to the far-right side, a door shot open and more of Thorin’s men began to pour into the room. Fortunately for Jag’s unarmed comrades, the new enemies were more concerned with the ten or so gray armored soldiers dropping into the room than they were with cutting down anyone from Besh or Aurek Squads.

By the time Jag reached the men who had been thrown from the walkway, those who were not unconscious or dead were beginning to reorient themselves. He lunged at the closest one and drove him back into the duracrete floor. The man’s head slammed violently against the ground and his body went limp. Jag followed with a quick punch to the temple for good measure then seized the man’s rifle.

To his left, another of Thorin’s soldiers started to raise his rifle. Jag fired two quick shots into his chest. He grabbed a blaster pistol from the hip holster of the man he had just punched out and put a trio of shots into the body of a soldier who made the mistake of groaning in pain to his right.

Bregen and Blaise reached Jag’s position a few seconds later. They stripped any weaponry they could from the enemy soldiers. The first wave of Scimitar troopers hit the ground and created a firing line with most seeking cover behind chunks of duracrete that had fallen from the ceiling. Those efforts, however, proved unnecessary a brief moment later when members of Cresh Squad burst through the ruptured wall and started cutting down anyone on their walkway that was still standing.

While the rest of Dorn Squad dropped in to the room, any unarmed men from Aurek and Besh Squads started scavenging for weapons. Jag, who had been firing relentlessly at the seemingly constant stream of soldiers entering the room at ground level, glanced up in time to see Thorin make a break for a door at the far end of the room. Jag started to track the target, but as he prepared to fire, he heard the all too familiar clanging of a concussion grenade bouncing along the ground.

“Incoming!” he bellowed as he dove in the opposite direction, hands pressed to his ears. An instant later, the sonic shockwave from the device rendered his body useless while it dropped the other five or so troopers near him to their knees in pain.

He expected a stray blaster bolt to rip through his back at any moment as he writhed in pain, but he remained unscathed. The Scimitar troopers clearing the overhead walkways had turned their fire on the enemy soldiers on the ground floor to provide suppressing fire, giving Jag and his men the precious seconds they needed to recover.

He eventually propped himself up on a knee using his blaster as a crutch and surveyed the scene. Thorin had disappeared from sight and most of his men were dead. The few who remained appeared determined to fight to their deaths, and Cresh and Dorn Squads seemed more than willing to oblige them. After another barrage of blaster fire from the walkway above Jag, the last of Thorin’s men fell to the ground.

“Clear up!” shouted one of the sergeants along the walkway.

Blaise fired another salvo into the pile of bodies. “Clear down!”

Jag headed for one of the ropes Dorn Squad had descended.

“What now, Lieutenant?” Bregen asked.

“We find Thorin.” Jag started climbing the rope as quickly as his muscles would allow. “And we kill him.”

***

Without their helmets, the squad of soldiers Jag patched together had considerable difficulty tracking Thorin through the complex. Bregen had insisted he come along, as had Halden, Cerone, and a private from Cresh Squad named Baare Krieght. The lieutenants of Cresh and Dorn Squads stayed behind to coordinate their escape efforts.

The facility was essentially a massive labyrinth of service corridors, freight tunnels, and more of the testing labs the squads had seen during their failed attack in the subterranean tunnel. As was the case with the other labs, these were empty, something Jag was certainly thankful for. Rescuing anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped inside was simply not an option.

They eliminated the few stray soldiers they encountered with relative ease. The factory seemed to be in a state of evacuation, a scenario that left Jag a bit unsettled. If Thorin was preparing to bring the facility down on top of itself, without any schematics Scimitar would never make it out alive—which was likely exactly what Thorin wanted.

Jag was still stewing over the fact that his men had been taken by complete surprise, though the more he ran the situation through his mind, he realized there was no way he could have detected the trap. Not even Blaise, the tragically cynical one of the bunch, could have predicted Thorin’s brand of treachery.

Jag did not consider himself a bloodthirsty being, nor did he take pleasure in killing. It was something he was required to do—both by his superiors and the nature of the galaxy’s beings—and he was exceptionally good at it. Since he was a young boy on his father’s farm, he had been taught the importance of justice and accountability for one’s actions. He was not without a sense of morality, and while his assignments occasionally seemed to run at odds with that sense, he continued with his actions in the name of justice.

Perhaps that was why an admission he had made prior to the firefight continued to dig at him. _Assassination squad_. Scimitar had become precisely that. In the beginning, their missions had a sense of righteousness about them. Pirates, slavers, and smugglers were their only targets. Jag had viewed the men he killed as vile degenerates, which certainly aided his justification process.

However, over the last several months, he had come to privately question his unit’s purpose. They were told they were eliminating corrupt and dangerous officers or warlords. Jag had never bothered to ask for particulars. Given the way his current mission was playing out, he started wishing he had been a bit more inquisitive. Perhaps he would have discovered Thorin’s true nature.

But he had not, and as a result he was still trying to work his way through the decades-old arms factory that had transitioned into a narcotics plant. The claxons continued to blare throughout the corridors, reverberating through the grated floorboards.

“Jag, dammit, where are we?” Blaise called back to him.

“The hell should I know? I’m following you!” Jag shot back.

“Well, we’re screwed,” Bregen muttered.

“Zip it, Jorj.” Jag came to a stop for a moment as they passed a pair of doors on their left. The markings on them were in a language he couldn’t begin to decipher, but they were the first doors they had passed in several minutes, and he was willing to take a chance on something other than running through seemingly endless corridors.

“Let’s give these a shot,” he shouted to Blaise. Jag started hitting commands at random on the control panel next to the doors. Unfortunately, they too were marked in that same unfamiliar language. He heard servomotors begin to whine a few times, but the doors refused to yield.

“Cerone?” Jag stepped aside and made an inviting gesture toward the door. “Your skills are required.”

The trooper stepped forward and cocked his head as he examined the panel for a few seconds.

“This one’s easy…unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” the rest of the group asked almost in unison.

“Yeah, unfortunately. Where’s the fun in slicing a door?”

He removed a small datapad from his belt and went to work. In less than thirty seconds the door slid open and Cerone looked back at the squad with a cocky grin. “ _Too_ easy.”

Jag rolled his eyes and stepped past him. The corridor beyond the doorway stood in stark contrast to those the squad had spent the last several minutes running through. The environment was far more sterile with none of the rusted, decaying girders that had lined the majority of the facility. It reminded him of the dead-end tunnel they managed to escape from earlier.

Blaise caught up to him and matched his strides as they continued to run toward an undetermined destination.

“I really hope you’ve got a clue as to where we’re going,” Blaise managed in between breaths.

“Didn’t we just have this conversation?” Jag quipped.

“If we weren’t a classic case of the blind leading the blind, we wouldn’t have to keep having it.”

Jag stopped as he passed a doorway to his left and slammed the stock of his rifle into the door controls. The door shot open and, to his delighted surprise, revealed a cavernous hangar.

“So, who’s the blind one?”

Blaise just groaned as he stepped through the doorway. Within the hangar were several shuttles and a half a wing of what appeared to be Clone Wars-era starfighters, though they were of a design that Jag had yet to encounter. At the far end sat a _Lambda_ -class shuttle with its wings raised in the standard landing position. Its crew scrambled about the flight deck while a few soldiers stood guard near the boarding ramp. Their rifles shot up simultaneously when they spotted the approaching squad.

Jag and the rest of his Scimitar counterparts dove for cover but none of the shuttle’s guards opened fire. Staying in a low crouch, Jag and Bregen started making their way toward the shuttle, staying behind whatever cover they could find along the way.

They were only about ten meters from the first guard’s post when a bank of exterior lights along the shuttle’s underside blasted to life, temporarily blinding Jag. He pressed his back against the stack of crates in front of him and waited for his vision to return.

“Hey Jag!” Blaise called out. “What was that about being blind?”

“Remind me to shoot him,” Jag muttered to Bregen as he rubbed at his eyes.

Bregen chuckled. “I’ll help. But in the meantime…”

“Right.” Jag blinked hard a few times, and when he decided enough of his vision had returned, he peeked around the corner of the stack of crates. When no blaster fire tried to burn through his skull, he motioned for Blaise to relax, who had taken cover several meters to his right and was also poking his head out from behind a barricade.

“Lieutenant Girran!” Thorin shouted, his voice echoing through the hangar. “I should thank you for validating my decisions to promote you so quickly. You are certainly relentless.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“Come on, Lieutenant. Lighten up.” Jag heard the ringing of boots on metal make their way toward his position, though they appeared to be the only pair moving. He caught Bregen’s attention and motioned toward a cluster of barrels behind them. Bregen nodded and slipped away in that direction. Again, no blaster fire tracked his movement. Suspicion started to creep into Jag’s mind; Thorin seemed to be a step ahead of him since the operation had begun.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not finding the humor in the situation,” Jag said.

“I suppose I could, Lieutenant. Still, the least you could do is hear what I have to say. I’d hate for you to die holding a grudge.”

Jag caught Blaise’s eye and motioned toward the rear of the hangar where they had entered. Unlike Bregen, however, he responded with a firm head shake and maintained his position. Jag gritted his teeth and exhaled furiously through his nose. Thorin was all but announcing an ambush, yet Blaise refused to help prepare a defense. Jag was hardly surprised; Lieutenant Blaise’s style had always been aggressive and unyielding. Jag didn’t expect that to change now.

“Are you still with me, Lieutenant?”

“Hanging on every word.”

“I’m sure. As I was saying,” Thorin continued. “I haven’t had a chance to properly fill you all in. You see, Scimitar has outlived its usefulness. With the Rebellion becoming an increasingly irritating pest, the Emperor, Grand Admirals, and Grand Moffs have little time for spice smugglers, corrupt bureaucrats, or, shall we say, entrepreneurial-minded officers of the Imperial Navy.

“However, the Emperor’s notoriously short temper and disdain for beings who fancy themselves cleverer than they truly are has hardly fallen by the wayside. Unfortunately for Scimitar, the man who commissioned the unit—the ‘distinguished’ Grand Admiral Ulnbret—falls perfectly into that category.

“He has grown considerably uncomfortable with the Emperor’s increased scrutiny. Allowing a decorated admiral and field commander to manage one of the fastest growing spice outfits in the Mid Rim is not exactly a good thing when placed under that kind of scrutiny.”

Jag glanced at Blaise, who was still staring intently at the shuttle, though his expression had changed from one of rage to curiosity.

“Ulnbret went to Saerving first. He figured the admiral would be easily persuaded into disbanding the operation. He was right. The bastard practically caved on the spot. Next thing I know, I’ve got Ulnbret’s personal stormtroopers trying to break down my front door.”

Thorin paused for a long moment. “Obviously, their mission was unsuccessful. From there, it didn’t take too long to piece together what was happening. I arranged this mission—manufactured the intel, handled crew reassignments for the transports, made sure _my men_ were in command positions, everything—and I killed Saerving myself.

“As for you and your men, Lieutenant…well, I don’t think I need to explain the inconvenience of loose ends to a man of your intelligence.”

“Hardly.”

“It wasn’t an easy choice. I want you to know that. I mean it. We’ve been through a lot. You, Blaise, me, your sergeants…if there’s a pit of damnation where the demons of the Dark Side torture us for all eternity, I’m pretty sure we’ve seen glimpses of it. But there comes a point where survival matters more than anything.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to set us all up to die!” Blaise shouted.

At first, Thorin said nothing. “Maybe you’re right, Lieutenant. I just couldn’t take the chance. I’m sorry. I had to put you in a situation of absolutes.”

“Seems you’ve managed to fail at that, Thorin,” Jag said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Lieutenant Girran.” The iciness that had left Thorin’s voice for a brief time crept back. “My offer still stands: gather your men and leave with me now. This factory is hardly my only facility. With the funds I’ve built up, we could carve out a comfortable slice of the galaxy to call our own.”

“And do what? Become Smugglers? Slavers? The scum we used to hunt? I’d rather be dead. Who gives a damn if the Empire has turned its back on us?

“We weren’t just taught to track, interrogate, to kill—we were taught _honor_. Honor in our unit, in our comrades, and in _ourselves_. I’m not going to betray that because I’ve got a few blasters aimed at me.

“You want to run from the Grand Admiral? That’s your business. Not mine. And not Scimitar’s. And if the Empire has in fact turned its back on us, so be it. But I will not allow my men— _good men_ —to succumb to cowardice as easily as you did.”

Silence descended upon the hangar. The only sound was the hissing of the shuttle’s engines and exhaust ports. Jag kept his eyes fixed on one of the guards posted near him. Thanks to the shadows near his cover, he was certain the guard had yet to spot him. After a few moments, Thorin spoke.

“Goodbye, Girran.”

Hell broke loose within the hangar.

The guards in front of the shuttle opened fire on whatever cargo cluttered the flight deck in front of them. Bregen and the rest of the men Jag had sent toward their entrance point returned fire, trying to provide some cover for Jag and Blaise as they began to crawl toward their squad mates. The shuttle’s repulsorlifts roared to life as its pilot prepared to lift off. Jag had almost made it to Bregen’s new position when the door they used to enter the hangar shot open.

 _“From behind!”_ he screamed.

Bregen dropped to a knee and turned his blaster on the door. His finger stayed on the trigger of his rifle while his left hand went to his hip. He grabbed a thermal detonator, thumbed the activator switch, and lobbed it toward the door. It banked off the frame and caromed into the hall.

“Cover!” Bregen shouted as he dove toward Jag. The floor shook from the explosion in the hall beyond the hangar, and a second later Jag saw Private Krieght rush through the door, refusing to release the trigger of his rifle as he ran. Cerone and Blaise followed closely behind him.

Bregen dragged Jag to his feet and shoved him toward the door. “Move your ass!”

Jag rolled into the hall and dove for the cover of a nearby bulkhead. Bregen tossed Jag his rifle as he ducked into the hall and turned his sights on what remained of the ambush.

Either their enemies had horribly misjudged the timing of the assault or the thermal detonator shattered their formation, but the small squad of Scimitar troopers cut its way through what was left of Thorin’s soldiers fairly quickly.

They made their way back to the room where Cresh and Dorn Squads had burst through the roof and linked up with the two remaining troopers. Blaise’s explosives man, Vius, was one of them.

“Good to see you, sir,” he said with a nod toward Blaise, then pointed toward a recently crafted hole in the wall. “Lieutenant Xavios and the rest of the men headed that way. Cresh Squad still had a couple guys dirtside that managed to secure some transports. We’ve got to move quickly—the cruiser Thorin brought us in on has started an orbital bombardment.”

“Lovely,” Jag groaned to Blaise as he started for the room’s exit. “This should be fun.”

“Always is.”

“Hey!” Vius shouted after him. “Don’t forget your helmets!”

The other soldier standing with Vius, whose name Jag could not recall at the moment, tossed him his helmet. Jag held it in his hands stared into its expressionless face, which had become pocked with blaster scoring and dents during his tenure with Scimitar. But it wasn’t just a helmet to him. It was part of him. It was his armor, and he wore it with honor—even if those who had given it to him no longer had any.

He secured the helmet and waited for the HUD to reload its programming, then checked his rifle’s power levels. He gave Bregen a nod once everything was calibrated and stepped toward the makeshift exit. The room was already beginning to shudder from turbolaser blasts rocking the surface.

“What’s next, Boss?” Bregen asked.

Jag couldn’t help but chuckle as he responded. “Survive.”

 


	23. Part VII

* * *

**PART VII: REUNION**

Present - 16 ABY

* * *

 

 

Jag regained consciousness suddenly, only to find himself still restricted by stuncuffs, though their power had at least been reduced.

He was laying on a cold, hard floor of a holding cell quite similar to those aboard the _Spartus_. Much like his ship, the interior of this particular vessel had a sterile, uninviting appearance that he believed only the reclusive type could appreciate.

His armor, which had been stripped from his body when his ship was boarded, lay in a heap across the room. He tried to stretch his limbs as much as possible without incurring the wrath of the stuncuffs, but the cuffs offered little in terms of movement.

His shoulders ached—he was fairly sure _something_ was torn—and his back felt like one massive knotted muscle. He could feel his body screaming out for relief as pain burned through every nerve of his body, but he did not make a sound. His captors had seen what he wanted them to see—a broken man, one who could not tolerate the pain they inflicted.

But he was not that man. They had no idea what they had brought aboard their ship. And, if they were as predictable as Jag had hoped, the ship he had been brought to was currently hurtling through hyperspace toward a very unwelcoming corner of the galaxy.

After a bit of experimentation, Jag found he could stretch his hamstrings and quadriceps without much reaction from the stuncuffs, and that sitting with his back to a wall provided some relief for his shoulders. Eventually a pair of the ship’s crewmen brought him water and a ration pack. The ration pack they simply opened and dropped onto a plate, then stood back and waited for a humiliating display Jag refused to provide.

The water, however, was a different story. He sipped it slowly, letting it wet his lips and soak into his parched mouth. The sips eventually turned into gulps and the container was quickly emptied. He knew better than to ask for more, so he shimmied himself back to the wall of the holding cell and resumed his previous position.

The two crewmen disappeared and Jag drifted off again. He slept as soundly as a man in stuncuffs could until he was jolted awake by the rattling sound of metal against metal. His eyes focused on the man walking along the front of the holding cell, the barrel of his blaster clanging against the vertical bars of the cell.

The man was well built and had a commanding presence. Jag recognized him immediately, though it had been years since he’d last seen him. The former explosives expert had certainly aged.

“Vius.”

“Hello, Girran.”

The holding cell opened and Vius stepped in. He was larger than Jag remembered—wider, not necessarily taller—and the bounty hunter began to feel overmatched, especially with the cuffs still in place.

Vius crouched down in front of Jag. “I’d offer an apology for my men’s excessive force, but I’m not sure you really deserve one.”

“Good to see you, too.”

Vius smiled. “The others were right; you haven’t changed at all.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Hm. From what I understand, you’ve figured this whole thing out. Or have I been misinformed?”

Jag shrugged. “Yeah. Mostly. I just haven’t figured out why. If this is over what happened on the _Renegade_ , you’ve all got a few circuits loose. Seems a bit unreasonable, if you ask me.”

“ _Reasonable?_ ” Vius spat. “After everything I— _we_ —had to suffer through—”

He cut himself off and made a visible effort to compose himself. “Soon enough, Girran, you’ll understand.”

“Been hearing that lot lately,” Jag muttered. “What I’ll never understand, though, is how you managed to turn into such a coward.”

Vius glared at Jag and rubbed his chin for a moment before standing up. “Sending Halden after you wasn’t my decision, though he hardly complained about the assignment.”

“Yeah. Noticed his opinion of me had changed a bit.”

“Betrayal will do that to a man,” Vius shot back. Jag cocked an eyebrow, but Vius waved his hand dismissively. “As I said, soon enough—”

“I know, I know.” Jag sighed overdramatically. “In the meantime, do I at least get to know where we are, or where we’re headed?”

“Don’t try to be cute, Girran. You know damn well where we’re going.”

Jag smiled. “Indeed, I do. I probably know where we are, too.”

Vius narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

“I’m going to assume you executed a full dump from my ship’s systems. I’m also going to assume that since you and whatever crew you’re running with knows about Surellia—specifically my connection to it—you’re gunning for it.”

“Your powers of deduction amaze me.”

“Thanks,” Jag said flatly. “But just knowing _about_ Surellia doesn’t mean you know the way in.”

“Ah.” Vius offered a sinister smile. “That, my friend, is where you are wrong.”

This time Jag remained silent.

“You see, we began monitoring your movements months ago. A tedious task, certainly. You’re quite adept at covering your tracks. It became obvious early on how you’ve managed to survive this long. Yet we managed to complete our task regardless.”

“I want to know how.”

There was no disguising the anger in Jag’s voice. He had been outsmarted and manipulated. Although he had suspected foul play of some sort, and even voiced his concerns to Mech, he had never anticipated _this_.

“I suppose there’s no harm in ruining the surprise at this point,” Vius said. “We couldn’t have done it without the help of Captain Blaise and his men.”

“You bastards,” Jag said, shaking his head. So, he had been lured out into the open after all. “Let me guess. Tracking device crafted by some technological genius?”

“I’d consider The Mechanic a technological genius, wouldn’t you?”

Jag could practically feel his jaw hit the floor. “You’re lying.”

Vius laughed. “Why would I bother?”

The former explosives expert had a point. There was nothing left to gain by deceiving Jag. All but the last of their Sabaac cards had been laid on the table, and as far as Jag could tell, Vius believed Jag’s final card had been played, and unsuccessfully so.

“We’ve been watching you for a long time, Girran. Long enough to learn your favorite spaceports, favorite cantinas, favorite mechanics.” Vius trailed off for a moment then grinned in such a sinister fashion that Jag was sure his skin actually began to crawl. “Your favorite woman.”

Jag’s jaw tightened. “You couldn’t kill her the first time around. And I’ll see to it personally that you don’t get a second chance.”

“It’s hard for a man to see to anything clearly when he’s about to die.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Such arrogance,” Vius chided. “But, as I was saying, your dear Mech provided invaluable assistance, albeit unwillingly. Having a spouse held hostage will make a man do strange things. He probably wouldn’t have helped if he knew how things were going to turn out for the two of them, but I won’t trouble you with the details. He did die quietly, that much I can assure you.”

Jag laughed bitterly through gritted teeth. “I’m going to rip your throat out. And I’m going to slaughter every last one of you. There is nothing I could have done that deserves this kind of retribution.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Jag shook his head in frustration. At this rate, he would be begging to be put out of his misery long before his plan could come to fruition. He needed to keep Vius occupied, even if just for a few more minutes.

“Just so I’m understanding this correctly: you used a homing beacon that Mech designed—one that he knew I would be unable to detect—and tracked me to Surellia. That means you already have the necessary calculations for the navicomputer in hand. Kind of makes my continued existence unnecessary, except that this kind of revenge is about more than just killing me. You’re punishing my existence.”

Vius shrugged. “More or less.”

“This is the end of the line, then, at least as far as you’re concerned, correct? Because if it wasn’t, you’d hardly be so candid.”

Another nod.

Jag smiled. “In that case, Vius, I’m very sorry to say that this is _not_ the end of the line—at least not for me.”

At that moment, as if fate had been standing idly by and patiently waiting for its cue, the ship lurched as though it had slammed into the surface of a planet. Jag and Vius were thrown against the walls of the holding cell. Alarm klaxons began blaring throughout the ship. The room’s lights began a sequence of nearly blinding red, white, and yellow flashes.

“Bridge to Vius!” a voice blared through the room’s comm. “We’ve been pulled out of hyperspace!”

“Brilliant crew you’ve got,” Jag groaned as he tried to pull himself into an upright position.

“Multiple contacts along multiple vectors! We’re surrounded!”

Vius was back on his feet, looking back and forth, his eyes wide with panic. His expression shifted to one of rage as he grabbed Jag by the collar.

“What did you do?”

Jag smiled broadly. “ _I_ didn’t do anything. _You_ , on the other hand…”

Vius threw him against the back wall of the holding cell and drew his blaster. “Start talking.”

“You _did_ extract whatever you could find in my ship’s systems, right?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m willing to bet that included files pertaining to a certain hyperspace route that cut around the western side of the core. One that would cut the number of jumps to Surellia in half.”

The color started to drain from Vius’ face. “Yes.”

Jag kept smiling. “If I were you, I’d begin broadcasting your intent to surrender in every language you know.”

Vius hesitated for a moment before reaching for his comlink. “Vius to Bridge. I’m on my way.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Jag said. “Fighting these people is just not an option.”

“Keep your cowardice to yourself.” Vius left the cell and sealed it behind him. “I doubt ‘these people’ have ever faced the _Beskade_.”

Still smiling as Vius headed for the door at the far end of the room, Jag rested his head against the back of the wall of the holding cell.

“Hey, Vius.” When the man stopped and looked over his shoulder, Jag flashed another grin. “I _am_ going to rip your throat out. And much sooner than you think.”

 *** 

Three of Vius men eventually came for Jag. Before that, Jag had spent what felt like an hour getting tossed from one side of the cell to the other while the ship rocked violently from what felt like direct concussion blasts to the hull.

The men opened the cell and dragged Jag to his feet, which caused the stuncuffs to send a wave of pain through his body. One of the men aimed a blaster at Jag while another removed the stuncuffs and bound Jag’s hands in front of his body. Jag exhaled in relief and felt a small bit of euphoria sweep through him as his back and shoulder muscles loosened. The guard with the blaster motioned toward the door and while one of the others shoved Jag along.

“Move it.”

The group made their way down several corridors, some of which had suffered extensive damage, before they reached a turbolift that took them to the bridge. Once there, Jag couldn’t help but smile while he watched the chaos around him.

The space in front of the ship was filled with a picket force of alien ships, all of which had a design most beings in the known galaxy would find incredibly foreign. There was also an audio message playing on a loop across the bridge’s speakers. The voice seemed to be repeating the same thing, just in different languages. Jag recognized three of them, but only two of them were used by anyone in the New Republic. The message was a clear warning to discontinue any hostile maneuvers and stand down immediately, as well as a declaration of intent to board the vessel. Given the state of the bridge and the corridors Jag had passed through on his way to the turbolift, Vius had decided not to listen.

“Captain Vius,” said one of the guards. “We retrieved the prisoner per your orders.”

Vius, leaning over a terminal arguing with two other bridge officers, turned toward Jag. Since leaving the holding cell, Vius’ appearance had changed considerably. Sweat dripped from his face and matted his hair, and parts of his clothing were torn, likely from being thrown about the bridge during the aggressor’s earlier barrage.

“Girran, you’ve got about five seconds to tell me what the hell _those_ are.” He pointed toward the group of ships sitting directly ahead of them.

“Or what?” Jag kept his tone and expression neutral.

Vius said nothing but there was no hiding the anger. He pounded the terminal and walked across the bridge to a different one. “Or we all die. That what you want?”

Jag shrugged. “I can live with that.”

One of the guards slammed Jag between the shoulder blades with the butt of a blaster, partially knocking the wind out of him. Once Jag regained his composure and was able to stand, he turned to the guard who had struck him.

“OW.”

Vius marched across the deck to where he was standing and grabbed Jag by the throat.

“Enough with the nonsense.” His nostrils flared as he tightened his grip. “Start talking.”

“You hearing the same message I am?” Jag wheezed as he gasped for breath after Vius released him.

“Of course I am, but what in the blazes is the ‘Chiss Ascendancy?’”

Jag couldn’t hold back a smile. “My ticket off this ship.”

The message continued to play in the background. It was almost identical to the one he had heard eight years prior.

“Unidentified ship: you have entered the realm of the Chiss Ascendancy. You are ordered to cease hostile operations at once and prepare for a full inspection of your vessel. Failure to comply will result in your destruction.”

It was a warning similar to those issued by practically every planetary defense fleet in the galaxy, but it still sent chills up Jag’s spine. The last time he had heard those words, events transpired that led to a fundamental change in how he lived. He found it appropriate that he hear them again now, as he prepared for what would likely be the defining moment of his life.

“Hate to say ‘I told you so.’ I tried to warn you. Hell, you’re lucky we’re still alive.”

Vius ignored Jag as he continued to shout orders to various crewmen. Jag shook his head, knowing that the captain’s efforts were futile. Any show of resistance would end with Jag and everyone else on the ship getting blown apart into stardust. After hearing Vius order one of his officers to begin targeting the primary vessel, Jag intervened.

“Vius, dammit, shut down the ship!”

The officer who had received the order hesitated at Jag’s protest.

“Ignore him,” Vius said. “Get it done.”

Realizing Vius was beyond the point of reasoning, Jag turned his attention to the officer. “You do that and we’re dead within thirty seconds.” He pointed to the alien ships. “We’re in _their_ territory, and they do not tolerate intruders—especially ones that shoot back.”

The officer fixed Jag with a hard stare for a moment before glancing at Vius, then back at Jag. He nodded in agreement and took a step away from Jag. Enraged, Vius charged past the man, shoving him to the ground.

“Get him off my bridge!”

None of the other officers on the bridge rushed to obey the order. A few of them looked at Jag as if waiting for _his_ instructions.

_Interesting._

“Vius,” he said as calmly as he could. “Power...the ship…down.”

The captain held his ground fuming for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. A tense silence descended upon the bridge as the crewmen—and Jag—awaited Vius’ decision.

While he waited, Jag noticed something begin to move along the line of Chiss ships. Vius’ back was to the viewports, and none of the other crewmen seemed to notice—except for one.

“Sir!” the crewman called. “Movement along the enemy’s line!”

“Report!” Vius demanded. Jag exhaled and relaxed for a moment. This development would hopefully distract Vius from firing for a few minutes.

The next five minutes transpired without incident. The movement Jag had observed—three shuttles escorted by starfighters—had approached the ship and taken up flanking positions. Vius’ control of the situation continued to deteriorate, but to Jag’s relief, he did not attempt to fire on any of the vessels during their approach.

Then the Chiss voiced their intent. “Unidentified ship: prepare to be boarded. Attempts to resist will be met with lethal force.” As was the case with the original broadcast, this message played in a loop, changing languages each time.

“Lieutenant Nuste, prepare your men,” Vius sad. “I expect they will board at the primary starboard and port airlocks; plan accordingly.”

Stunned, Jag tried to intervene. “They will _slaughter_ your men, Vius. They aren’t—”

“Return the prisoner to his cell,” Vius snapped at the three men guarding Jag. “If he resists, shoot him.”

Jag’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He looked at one of the guards next to him. “Well _that’s_ not part of the plan, is it?”

The guard ignored him and shoved him back toward the doors leading to the turbolift. Once they had nearly made their way back to the detention center, Jag slowed his steps.

“You realize he’s going to get you all killed, right?” he asked the guard to his right.

“Captain knows what he’s doing. He’s gotten us out of tougher spots than this.”

Jag laughed. “I doubt that.” He looked at the guard on his left. “How about you?” The guard remained silent. “And Mr. Personality in the back, you on board with this?”

The guard pressed the muzzle of his blaster into Jag’s back. “One more word.”

Jag bowed his head and went silent. He spared a few glances downwards, trying to catch a glimpse of the guard’s feet. Though he had to fake a couple of stumbles, he was able to synchronize his steps with those of the rear guard. When a pair of sideways glances confirmed that the other two guards’ eyes were not on him, Jag attacked.

His left foot shot backwards and hooked the rear guard’s lead foot. He swept it forward, knocking the guard off his feet. Jag jumped up to avoid entangling his free leg and landed square on the chest of the downed guard. An audible _crack_ indicated at least one broken rib. He balled his fists and swung at the face of the guard to his left. The strike connected and the guard staggered back.

Jag loaded his momentum on his left leg and launched himself back to the right. With his right foot now free, he was able to complete a full roundhouse kick on the third guard, who was starting to draw his blaster. Jag crushed the guard’s face with his boot and the blaster fell from his hand.

The guard that Jag had punched in the face lunged and drove him face-first into the corridor’s wall; he then wrapped his arms around Jag’s torso. Jag slammed the rear of his skull into the guard’s face then leveraged his body against the guard’s, jumped, and pushed off from the wall with his legs. The pair fell to the ground, and the guard’s body went limp as his head smacked against floor.

Jag rolled off his attacker’s body and picked up the third guard’s blaster. He put shots into all three guards and rummaged through their pockets to retrieve their comlinks. As he neared the detention center, Jag could hear voices and running footsteps coming toward him. The door was only a few more meters away, but the voices were getting closer and Jag doubted he would reach it in time.

Just before he reached the door, the ship rocked violently and the corridor’s lights surged on and off several times. Jag was thrown against the wall, but he managed to stay on his feet. He could hear the approaching group either slam into the walls or fall to the ground. He took advantage of the disruption and made it to the detention center undetected.

Some of his armor was still in the same spot near his holding cell while other pieces had been scattered around the room. He removed a vibroblade he kept concealed in a shin plate and sliced the fibercord binding his wrists.

Finally free to stretch his muscles, Jag tested his body’s limitations. The walk to the bridge had helped loosen his legs and changing the placement of his hands had given his shoulders some much needed relief. He strapped on his armor and holstered the blaster he had taken from the guards.

Jag tucked his helmet under his arm, cautiously exited the detention center, and headed aft down the corridor. He eventually passed a door labeled as an observation deck which he had to manually open, as power in that part of the ship had finally been completely disabled. He made his way up several flights of stairs to the observation room, which was comprised of floor-to-ceiling viewports on three sides. From there, he was able to ascertain exactly what was happening—and see just how badly the Chiss outmatched Vius.

The Chiss had responded to the foreign ships’ appearance with an impressive show of force. The vessels that Jag had seen while on the bridge were not the only ones present. There were at least five more: two each to starboard and port with another circling toward the rear.

Those ships had released at least two wings of starfighters, though these were nothing like the fighters Jag had seen several years ago when he met Commander Hackan. These looked like a TIE prototype of some sort; the familiar cockpit ball was there, but the wings were far different—and far more menacing.

Meanwhile, it appeared Vius had made the potentially fatal decision of opening fire. However, Jag could observe no structural damage on the Chiss ships and only minimal scoring marks on the hull of Vius’ ship. Puzzled, Jag craned his neck to look down the length of first the port side, then the starboard, at which point he understood why the Chiss had been so reluctant to return fire. Attached to the hull at two points were a group of boarding shuttles.

Jag grinned. “Right on time, boys.”

His plan was working perfectly, despite Vius’ best efforts to unknowingly defeat it. He just hoped ArDee was having equal success with his side of things.

Jag bounded back down the stairs to the main corridor and began making his way toward the turbolifts to the bridge. Instead of returning to the bridge, however, he bypassed the lifts and continued toward the point where the Chiss shuttles had latched onto the hull.

After a few minutes of unimpeded progress, the familiar sound of blaster fire started echoing through the corridor. He reached for his blaster rifle instinctively, but had to settle for the blaster he had taken from one of his escorts minutes earlier.

The corridor began to gradually turn to the right, and as he continued to approach the blaster fire, Jag pressed his back against the wall with his blaster at the ready and his helmet still in hand. The blaster fire and shouting had intensified, and not all of the shouting was in Basic. He carefully leaned away from the wall to survey the skirmish, but quickly withdrew when a burst of blaster fire ripped into the wall near his face.

Not wanting to risk hitting any of the Chiss, Jag held his fire and started moving forward in a crouch. Each step forward forced a grimace as Jag tried to endure the shots of pain radiating from his knees.

 _I’m spending a week in a bacta tank after this_.

The scene ahead was one of controlled chaos. Chiss operatives advanced steadily on a lightly fortified position manned by Vius’ men. Their fire was constant but meticulous, the timing of their covering fire perfect. No two Chiss standing together reloaded their weapons simultaneously.

Vius’ men, on the other hand, were giving ground quickly as the Chiss continued to press forward. Their blaster fire grew sporadic, their aim undisciplined. He could see some of them begin to retreat farther down the corridor while others disappeared through side hatches. Jag’s brow creased in confusion; he would expect Vius to fight for every inch of the ship, not surrender to the enemy’s advance.

_Unless…_

The door on the right just head of Jag flew open and a group of about fifteen soldiers poured through.

_Just like Trioegh VIII…_

He didn’t know why, but Jag expected the Chiss rear guards to hear the steps of the approaching ambush even over the din of the firefight. His instincts screamed for him to warn the Chiss, to shout _anything_ , but his mind was elsewhere. The memory of fighting his way through the abandoned droid factory came surging back so vividly he nearly forgot it was only a memory. The faint yet persistent scent of rust filled his nostrils, the deafening barrage of blaster fire, both from his men and the enemy…

And then there was Thorin’s revelation. His scheme that led Scimitar to its death, the smugness with which he mocked Jag’s sense of honor, Thorin’s complete lack thereof…

The memory ended abruptly as it had begun as Jag’s mind refocused. The blaster was already aimed and firing, seemingly by its own volition. Three of the men in front of Jag fell immediately. Before the Chiss could react, one of the rear guards was gunned down as a stream of laser bolts ripped into his back.

Despite the ambush, the Chiss’ discipline did not waiver. One of the soldiers, likely the commanding officer, barked an order and the front half of the squad continued its initial assault while collectively dropping to a knee. The rear half pivoted quickly and opened fire. Jag dropped back a few meters to avoid the blue beams of energy pouring out of the Chiss’ weapons but continued to fire into the group of ambushers.

Within seconds the attack was over and all of Vius’ men were dead. Before Jag could duck out of sight the Chiss spotted him and unleashed a ferocious barrage at his position. Jag kicked himself backwards away from the corner, sliding along the floor of the corridor on his rear. He quickly got to his knees, tossed his blaster back toward the Chiss, and put his hands behind his head. His mind racing, he scrambled to remember the bit of Cheunh Commander Hackan taught him years ago. The sound of footsteps running down the corridor toward his position grew closer…

“ _Tre’tunah_!”

The steps came to an abrupt halt. Sweat rolled down Jag’s forehead and into his eyes, but he didn’t dare make any movements with three fully armed Chiss staring at him. Their weapons still trained on him, the commander pushed past the soldier in the middle and marched straight for Jag, a furious expression on his face.

“What did you say?” he demanded in surprisingly crisp Basic.

Jag swallowed hard. “ _Tre’tunah_.”

The Chiss raised an eyebrow, forcing a grin to tug at the edges of Jag’s mouth.

“Identify yourself.”

“Jag Girran, captain of the _Spartus_.”

The Chiss cocked his head slightly to the right. “Commander Hackan’s Girran?”

Jag hesitated before nodding in affirmation. “Apparently your leader told you about me. I’m humbled.”

“He is not my leader,” the Chiss said almost too quickly. “Nor is he the leader of any Chiss within the boundaries of the Ascendancy.”

“I—”

“No questions,” the soldier said sharply. “For the moment, more pressing matters require my attention.”

Jag nodded in agreement. “Of course…sir.”

“Lieutenant Shan'act'ocomdan,” the Chiss said, sensing Jag’s search for a proper title. “Though you may refer to me as Lieutenant Nacto.”

“Certainly, Lieutenant.” Jag leaned to look past Nacto at the blaster he had tossed away and nodded toward it. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir?”

Nacto turned to look then motioned to one of the soldiers standing near the blaster, who returned the weapon to Jag. He nodded his thanks and forced it into one of his holsters.

“If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, Lieutenant, I was hoping I could offer some assistance.”

“Under typical circumstances I would refuse,” Nacto said. He looked back at his soldiers for a minute before continuing. “However, it stands to reason that your familiarity with this ship’s design greatly exceeds our own. Perhaps you could aid in reaching the command cabin of this vessel.”

“Absolutely, sir.” For the first time since retrieving his armor, Jag pulled his helmet over his face and secured the atmospheric seal. “I assure you, nothing would please me more.”

 


	24. Chapter 24

Together, Jag and the Chiss fought their way through the middle of the ship, clearing as many corridors as they could. After slicing a terminal and obtaining the ship’s schematics, Nacto was able to establish communication with the members of the other boarding ship and direct them to his squad’s current location.

“There is a set of turbolifts near where we met that will take us directly to the bridge,” Jag offered.

Nacto shook his head. “Given their choice in tactics, the turbolifts you speak of will no doubt be heavily guarded at our destination, if not sabotaged at a prior point.” He paused for a moment and frowned. “No, we will have to settle for a direct assault against the bridge’s primary means of ingress.”

“We’ll die before we breach the blast doors,” Jag countered. “Those things are built to withstand bombardments, and that says nothing of whatever automated defenses Vius installed along the way.”

Nacto nodded. “I do not disagree. What of alternate routes?”

“You mean other than maintenance hatches that are either sealed or rigged with explosives? No.”

“Perhaps we could create our own?”

Jag frowned. “Explain.”

“Below this.” Nacto stomped his foot against the deck twice. “What is there?”

“I assume piping, wiring, random crawlspaces,” Jag said with a shrug. “I doubt we could fit enough men in there to actually launch an assault, though. They’d gun us down trying to crawl out.”

“Who said anything about crawling out?” Nacto said.

Jag paused then grinned as he realized what Nacto was implying. “You want to cut through from the top.”

“Precisely. The group that will be joining us momentarily is equipped with the materials necessary for such an operation.” He raised the Chiss equivalent of a comlink to his mouth and uttered a few succinct orders into it before receiving a simple acknowledgement, then turned back to Jag.

“We will begin clearing the necessary areas above the bridge. The rest of my people will meet us there, at which point the operation may commence.” Nacto motioned for one of his officers to join them.

“As you are far better armored than my soldiers, you will lead us in. My men and I will follow you through. I have been given explicit instructions to capture this vessel intact and its commander alive. Do _not_ interfere with those orders.”

The sternness of the lieutenant’s voice left no room for debate. Jag’s experience with Nacto’s people had taught him all too well that failure to comply with their demands would be met with nothing short of swift and vicious retribution.

“Understood, Lieutenant.”

Nacto must have sensed Jag’s apprehension, because he was quick to add to his warning.

“However, once my task is complete, I will petition my commander to release this vessel’s leader to your custody.”

Jag smiled behind the cover of his helmet. “Your accommodations are most appreciated, Lieutenant.”

“Indeed.”

Nacto issued a series of orders to his men then handed Jag one of the Chiss blasters. “I suggest you improve your defenses. It is unlikely that your next opponent will have his back turned.”

Unsure whether Nacto was employing humor or condescension, Jag smiled weakly and accepted the weapon.

“Have you used a charric before?” Nacto asked as Jag examined the alien weapon.

“Can’t say that I have.”

“You will find it superior to the majority of the weapons you are familiar with.”

“Only one way to find out, right?”

Nacto cocked an eyebrow and turned back to his men, and Jag wondered if he had managed to offend the Chiss lieutenant. Pushing the thought away, he fell in line with the Chiss as they started toward the area Nacto had designated as the staging point for their assault on the bridge.

They encountered minimal resistance along the way: a few pockets of two or three men, nothing more. During the trip, Jag couldn’t help but think of all that had transpired prior to this point between him and the remnants of _Beskade_. The men he had once called brothers and gone to war with he now sought to destroy—and they him. Their reasons, he knew nothing of; his own were merely reactionary.

Friends of his had been killed in cold blood. Their only crime had been to count Jag as an acquaintance. Such acts could not, in a just galaxy, go unpunished. And the distributor of such justice, the New Republic, had no standing in Jag’s world. The actions of those who operated outside of the law were accountable only to those who shared that realm.

While the majority of those beings preferred to live according to whatever concept of justice they felted best suited their needs, Jag had made every effort to adhere to the strict standards of justice and honor he had been taught years ago. The fact that he had learned those lessons during his service to the Empire changed nothing. He had been trained by good men—honorable men—who expected nothing less from the soldiers they commanded.

Perhaps that was why now, as the inevitable reunion with Thorin and those he left behind grew closer, the anger that had been fueling his every move began to give way to profound sadness. Betrayal was one thing. Some of his missions with Scimitar were a type of betrayal, but always against a corrupt soul. It was more punishment than betrayal. But such personal betrayal, a vicious vendetta against his whole existence, perpetrated largely in part by those he had once sworn to protect…

“We’ve arrived, Captain.”

Jag physically jolted at the sound of Nacto’s words, his musings melting away like ice in the sun. Jag removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Unbeknownst to Jag, two of the Chiss near him caught sight of the scar running down his face and started to stare.

“ _Asit’i hi’reindah_ ,” Nacto snapped at them, which brought Jag’s attention to their stares. He grinned and chuckled lightly.

“Not a problem, Lieutenant,” he assured the Chiss. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Regardless, it is inappropriate.” Nacto turned to the two Chiss he had just reprimanded. “Captain Girran has lived the life of a noble _krie’jah_. Perhaps one day you will be fortunate enough to bear such marks.”

Upon noticing Jag’s confused expression, he elaborated for the bounty hunter. “It means ‘warrior,’ Captain.” He smiled reassuringly. “As I said, Commander Hackan once spoke very highly of you.”

Jag nodded his thanks and distantly started wondering how he could have possibly impressed an individual as enigmatic as Commander Hackan. While his own opinion of himself was hardly poor, Jag’s ego was not _that_ inflated.

The other squad soon arrived and immediately went to work. Nacto specified what areas he wanted cut and was quite involved in the entire process. It impressed Jag but did not surprise him. It was obvious that the Chiss were proud people and did not take their responsibilities lightly. Their commitment to excellence was admirable.

_The Force forbid they ever go to war with the Republic._

Within minutes the Chiss had cut away a large section of the deck and cleared it away from the area. Jag again had to marvel at the soldiers; it only took four of them to lift and carry the piece of metal plating, a true demonstration of strength. Next, the soldiers with the cutting devices set them aside and gently lowered themselves into the crawlspace below, maneuvering their bodies into whatever crevice they could. They then placed several small spheres along the bottom of the crawlspace. The spheres were decorated with blue lights blinking at a slow rate.

“Are you ready, Captain?” Nacto asked, moving to Jag’s side.

Jag nodded as he secured his helmet. “Yes, sir.”

“I assume you remember the terms of our agreement.”

“I do.”

“Excellent. The instant the ceiling falls through, we will deploy several tactical explosives that should disorient anyone within the immediate area. That is when you must strike.”

“Understood.” Jag slapped his chest plate twice. “This stuff can take a hit, but I won’t last more than a few seconds under concentrated fire from all angles. You’re going to have to be right behind me.”

“And we will, Captain, I assure you.” Nacto then extracted a small dagger from a sheath. It reminded Jag of a _beskad_ , just considerably smaller, about twenty centimeters long. It was a slim blade crafted with a brilliantly red metal, one edge smooth but sharp, the other serrated.

“This may prove useful,” he said as he offered Jag the weapon. He ran a gloved finger along the smooth edge, which actually sliced the tenacious material of the glove.

“Yeah,” he said. “It might.”

Nacto snapped a few quick orders to a pair of Chiss, who then rushed a collection of small objects to a group of soldiers standing above the hole cut in the deck. The devices were cylindrical and the length of Jag’s palm.

“Tactical team, prepare for entry,” Nacto ordered. He paused for a couple seconds, then: “Activate.”

Jag shifted the blade to his left hand and drew his blaster from the holster. One of the Chiss from the crawlspace pressed a button on one of the spheres, which changed the lights to a bright green. They started blinking at an increasingly quicker rate before simultaneously beeping three times.

After the third beep, a red laser beam ignited between the spheres, both along the perimeter of the devices as well as crisscrossing between them. The beam’s glow intensified then ripped through the crawlspace’s floor. An instant later, the Chiss tossed the small cylinders through the opening.

A series of eardrum-piercing _cracks_ ripped through the air and the area directly below the hole began filling with a thick gray cloud. Jag was through the hole a second later. He hit the deck of the bridge and dropped into a crouch, and after identifying his first set of targets, launched into action.

The majority of the men near Jag’s insertion point were mostly incapacitated. Those who weren’t were trying to track Jag’s form through the smoke. He went for them first.

A pair of shots burned through the chests of the first two men to his right. A quick glance over his left shoulder showed three more beginning to gather their bearings. He fired single shots into two of them while launching Nacto’s red blade into the neck of the third.

He leaped at the third body, ripped the blade from its victim, and slipped back into the cover of the smoke, whose cloud was continuing to expand. The sound of boots clanging against metal echoed throughout the bridge as Nacto and some of his men dropped into the bridge, remaining within the protective shroud of smoke.

Vius’ men began firing haphazardly into the smoke. Some of the bolts slipped harmlessly through the cloud while others found their mark, though most did not prove deadly. A few grunts of pain were all the Chiss soldiers allowed, and those not fatally wounded continued to return fire. Blue blasts of energy erupted from the cloud with shocking accuracy, and the number of Vius’ sentries quickly dwindled.

Nacto’s entry point had placed them between the primary exit and the majority of the bridge’s command stations, and while that certainly offered a strategic advantage, Jag realized that as soon as the smoke cloud dissipated, Nacto’s Chiss would be completely exposed to anyone in a defensive position on the opposite end of the bridge.

Then two pairs of the small Chiss cylinders flew forward from unseen hands. Jag turned his back on their eventual landing point and covered his audio receptors. The deafening _crack_ struck again, and a brilliant white flash rendered his HUD useless. He frantically ripped his helmet off and dove for cover, huddling up behind an exposed bulkhead.

“Dammit, Nacto!” he shouted over the roar of blaster fire.

The Chiss leader ignored his curses and as Jag’s vision returned, he understood why. He watched as Nacto hurdled a bank of terminals into the command well of the bridge with four of his men pursuing along his flanks. Three more soldiers took positions at the terminal bank and laid down covering fire. Within seconds Vius’ men were overrun. Those who attempted to fire on the Chiss were dispatched without hesitation while the others received blows to the chest, back, and head.

Jag tucked his helmet under his arm and joined the three Chiss at the terminal bank. Four more Chiss jumped down to the bridge and began assisting with detaining the surviving members of Vius’ crew. While Jag waited for them to conclude their efforts, he made sure the blast doors to the bridge were sealed, lest they be caught off-guard by any remaining crew members.

Smoldering holes decorated the walls of the bridge while numerous bodies lay scattered across the room. Remarkably, only a single Chiss had been killed. Several had sustained wounds of varying degrees of severity, but the squad’s medic was already tending to their needs.

Twenty minutes later, Nacto’s men had their prisoners herded on to the boarding craft and were returning to the largest of their cruisers. A few Chiss stayed behind to examine the ship’s databanks. At Nacto’s invitation, Jag accompanied the Chiss back to their cruiser. He made it a point to avoid Vius during the trip.

Instead he took a seat near one of the shuttle’s viewports. What lay beyond sent a chill down his spine. Every ship from Vius’ task force, save for the cruiser Nacto’s men had boarded, had been reduced to fields of flotsam. Mangled bulkheads and bodies drifted about aimlessly while Chiss starfighters darted through the newly formed mechanical graveyard.

_It only took them minutes to do this…_

Nacto noticed Jag’s gaze and slid into the seat next to him.

“They left us no choice. We do not tolerate aggression against the Chiss Ascendancy.”

“But the ships were all intact when we left the bridge.”

“Apparently the fleet had a standing order to attack if the command ship was seized,” Nacto explained. “I was not made aware of this until just prior to our departure. It is unfortunate.”

Jag said nothing, but continued to privately marvel at how quickly the Chiss had ripped apart Vius’ ships.

Once they arrived the group of prisoners was separated. The two groups were led away from the hangar while Vius and two others were kept behind.

“The Commander is expecting an audience with them,” Nacto explained.

Jag was then led through a series of corridors teeming with Chiss crewmen en route to what Jag assumed was the bridge. When they instead arrived at a circular room, Jag shot a questioning glance at Nacto. The Chiss simply nodded toward the large oval-shaped table in the center of the room, which looked as though it had been carved from the side of a glacier. Jag was stunned when he saw who sat at its head.

“Captain Girran,” the aged Chiss said with a nod of the head. “It has been many years.”

“ _Commander_ Samol. It is an honor to see you again.”

Jag couldn’t help but notice Vius’ jaw hanging open as he looked back and forth between the Chiss commander and the bounty hunter. Jag did his best to suppress a smile.

“I certainly appreciate your efforts to warn us of this man’s intent to violate our borders.” Samol gestured toward Vius. “As you are well aware, we do not take such encroachments lightly.”

“Of course, Commander,” Jag said with a nod. “Though I must be honest, the warning would have been wasted had it not been for your prisoner’s predictability.”

Samol studied Vius unblinkingly for a moment. “Elaborate, Captain.”

“As you may recall, Commander Hackan provided me with extensive navigational data for this region. For the most part, that information has remained unused. However, as a precaution, I created several programs designed to serve as a last-ditch effort at self-preservation.

“It’s standard procedure for pirates, bounty hunters, and even military men to dump the systems and nav logs of any ship they capture into their own system. Once I figured out what he—” Jag nodded toward Vius, “—and whoever else he was working with were up to, I created another one of those programs that would serve up _some_ of the navigational data for Chiss space. I knew the prospect of a supposed quicker route to their destination would be too much to pass up.

“In addition, ArDee, who I’m sure you remember, was instructed to execute the second part of the program, which is why my ship so rudely burst into the Ascendancy broadcasting my warning.”

Commander Samol nodded approvingly. “Well done, Captain. Your foresight is commendable, as is your respect for the integrity of our boundaries.”

Jag nodded again. “It’s the least I could do, Commander.”

Samol returned the gesture and turned his attention to Vius. “Your vessels attacked Chiss forces without provocation. You refused to cooperate with my men on your ship, a choice which has resulted in the unnecessary destruction of your forces. Consider yourself fortunate to still be alive.”

Vius remained silent, though the fear Jag had noticed before was gone. In its place was the stoic expression of a hardened warrior.

_That’s more like it._

“You’ve made quite clear your intention to not cooperate. Neither I nor the Chiss Ascendancy will tolerate such transgressions against our territory. I will offer you a single opportunity to rescind your previous refusals, but beyond that, you will be punished in accordance with our laws.”

Jag shifted his gaze back and forth between Samol and Vius. Neither showed any signs of caving. A muscle twitched in Vius’ cheek; beyond that, both stood rigidly stood their ground.

“You have my answer,” Vius finally said with as much defiance as he could muster before turning to Jag. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable, Girran. Your friends are dead, and you’re not far behind.”

Jag glared at Vius for a moment before looking to Samol. “Lieutenant Nacto had mentioned transferring custody of the prisoner.”

Samol nodded. “He did.”

“And your decision?”

Samol held Jag’s gaze for a moment then locked eyes with Vius.

“The prisoner is yours, Captain.”

Under different circumstances, Jag may have smiled and relished his victory for a brief moment—but the circumstances were not so. Instead, he was across the room and within arm’s reach of Vius in three commanding strides. His vibroblade slipped from his gauntlet to his palm, and he fixed the hilt with a backhanded grip.

Vius, to his credit, remained silent and stood firm, his eyes betraying nothing, revealing no fear or panic. Jag grabbed the back of Vius’ neck and pulled him close.

“This is for Mech.”

The blade effortlessly dug into Vius’ chest, though there was no cry of pain. Jag then moved his other hand to Vius’ throat.

“And this is for Jorg.”

He tightened his grip then ripped it away with as much power as he could summon. Vius’ corpse collapsed in a heap while Jag stood still, his armor splattered with blood.

_How many more?_

He tossed the mass of cartilage that he’d torn from Vius’ throat onto the corpse and exhaled deeply.

_How many old friends must die?_

In his peripherals, he could see the Chiss guards staring at him, though none of them had their weapons drawn. He set his shoulders and raised his chin, then stepped back from Vius’ body. He turned to Samol and bowed at the waist.

“My apologies for such…unpleasantness, Commander.”

Samol’s red eyes seemed to glow brighter than usual, so much so that Jag grew uncomfortable. A tense silence filled the room, and for nearly a minute, no one moved or spoke.

Samol was the first to speak, but when he did so, Jag could not detect any trace of anger or contempt.

“Remove the body; dispose of it. Disinfect the room and take the remaining prisoners to the detention area.”

As his men rushed to obey his commands, Samol turned his attention to Jag.

“Such a display of brutality would typically offend both my people and me, and the offender would be…punished.” He tilted his head as he examined Vius’ body before cocking an eyebrow. “Though in this situation, I suppose a certain amount of executive prudence is in order.”

He shook his head once and sighed, then pointed a warning finger at Jag. “I will not tolerate anymore of this.”

Jag nodded and bowed slightly. “Again, Commander, my apologies.” He glanced at the bloodied corpse. “I had a promise to keep.”

“Hm.”

Samol made his way out of the room and started down the corridor. Nacto and Jag almost broke into a trot to keep up.

“A warning would have been nice,” Nacto muttered out the side of his mouth.

“I said I was sorry,” Jag shot back. “We had…history.”

“Clearly.”

They were in the detention center minutes later. The surviving members of Vius’ crew had been separated into groups of three, each one under the supervision of two well-armed Chiss. Among the captured were several men Jag recognized as bridge officers.

“Commander Samol, a word.”

“Yes, Captain?” the Chiss said as he guided Jag out of earshot of the Chiss guards and their prisoners.

“There are at least three prisoners here who served Vius on the bridge of his ship. With your permission, I’d like to speak with them.”

“Only speak?”

Jag smiled innocently, though Samol’s tone was clear. Another outburst would not be tolerated.

“Yes, Commander. In fact, I would appreciate it if both you and the lieutenant were present during my questioning. It will help us avoid further unpleasantness.”

After identifying the three bridge officers, Samol motioned to the Chiss guarding them and ordered the prisoners be brought forward.

Samol ushered Jag forward with a sweep of the hand. “You may begin, Captain.”

“Your captain was unwilling to cooperate,” Jag said, wasting no time. “For your sake, I hope you consider otherwise. You,” he pointed to the prisoner to his left. “What was your destination?”

The prisoner said nothing, his eyes focused forward. Jag sighed with impatience. “I _really_ don’t like repeating myself.”

Again, silence. Jag turned to Samol and questioningly raised an eyebrow. Samol nodded to Nacto who stepped forward and delivered a swift backhanded strike to the prisoner’s face, then grabbed him by the jaw.

“You will answer Captain Girran’s questions, or you will suffer the fate of your captain.”

The prisoner in the middle glanced at Nacto. “What did you freaks do to him?”

Nacto slowly turned his head and glared at the man. “We ‘freaks’ did nothing.”

Jag turned his palms outward, his gloves still bloodied. “I, on the other hand…”

The blood drained from the prisoner’s face as his gaze drifted from Jag’s hand to the blood spattered on his armor. He swallowed hard then started whispering something to the man on his right. The whispering quickly escalated into an argument.

“I’ll talk!” the middle prisoner finally shouted.

“Traitor!”

The man on the right lunged at him, but with his hands bound behind him, it was a futile effort. A Chiss guard was on him in an instant and dragged the prisoner to his feet, then threw him back toward the other prisoners.

Nacto tossed the man on the left to the side as well and motioned for one of the guards to remove him from the area. Another pair of Chiss raised the cooperating prisoner to his feet and guided him forward.

“Your name, please.”

“Desin Blaise.”

Jag’s body jolted with surprise. “What did you say?”

“My name is Desin Blaise.”

“Any relation to—”

“Captain Blaise of CorSec? Yes. I am his nephew.”

Jag studied the man for a moment. He looked just young enough to actually be a nephew of the Blaise he knew, though that hardly mattered. Captain Blaise could have had an older brother. Jag had never thought to ask.

_There was a lot we never talked about…_

“Why not serve with him, then? Join a respectable—and legal—cause?” Jag asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“Ah, but I do serve with him,” Desin said. “My uncle never left _Beskade_ , at least not completely.”

Jag finally had one of the last pieces of the puzzle.

“Telnor was a ruse.”

Desin nodded. “Partly. He was certainly a priority target as far as CorSec was concerned.”

“But by putting a bounty on him instead of handling things internally, Blaise drew me out.” Jag shook his head in frustration. _You idiot_. “That explains the ban on state use of bounty hunters.”

“The what?” Desin asked, looking genuinely confused.

“Shortly before the bounty was posted on Telnor, the Senate passed a ban on the official hiring of bounty hunters, a move that surprised a lot of people—and made me a lot of money. I had my suspicions before, but this all but guarantees that whoever is leading _Beskade_ now had a hand in passing that legislation.

“That same ban was lifted just months after I personally delivered Telnor to your uncle, at which point he repaid me—off the books, thanks to the ban—which allowed him to get close to me and hide his allegiance to you people.”

Still disgusted with himself, Jag dropped his helmet to the floor started pacing around the detention area, running the situation through his mind. Eventually he returned to Samol’s side and retrieved his helmet.

“I’ve been dancing to your tune for long enough,” he growled as he jammed the helmet into Desin’s chest. “I’m bringing this whole thing down on itself, and I don’t care if I go with it.” He paused for a moment, contemplating whether he should even go forth with the request that he knew had to be made.

“Commander Samol, Lieutenant Nacto—I’m afraid I must ask something more of you.”

“I already know the question you’re preparing to ask,” Samol said. “And I cannot grant your request.”

Jag pursed his lips and nodded. “I understand.”

“I assure you my decision is not personal. If these men were mine to give, I would lead them to your aid myself. But I serve the Ascendancy, Captain—I am bound by my duty. I fear that the aid I have already provided is beyond that which my superiors would deem appropriate.”

Nacto stepped closer to his commanding officer. ““Sir, I may have a solution.”

Samol glanced around the room at the other Chiss, most of whom seemed focused on the prisoners, but a few were clearly trying to eavesdrop.

“Not here,” the commander said. He raised his voice and motioned to the Chiss guards. “Secure the _gehkaghas_. They are not to be harmed.”

“ _V’brepstanen_ ,” the soldiers said in unison.

Commander Samol led Jag and Nacto away from the detention area and down another corridor before stopping in an empty part of it.

“Comman—”

Samol cut Nacto off with a point and pressed his hand to the wall. A small piece sank in slightly then slid upwards, revealing a control panel unlike anything Jag had ever seen. It was not a keypad or screen. Instead, it was gel-like material that conformed to Samol’s fingertips. He entered a series of commands in a manner that reminded Jag of musician playing a keyboarded instrument. After a few seconds, he raised a panel of the corridor’s wall, much in the same way the control panel’s cover had opened.

“Inside,” Samol ordered. He removed his hand from the panel which closed itself immediately.

Once all three were out of the corridor, Jag removed and activated a glowrod from his utility belt.

“Now, Lieutenant, if you would please continue?”

“Yes, Commander. I understand your reservations about using our people to assist Captain Girran. But perhaps the Chiss could still provide aid—as long as those Chiss are not of the Ascendancy.”

“Not of the Ascendancy?” Jag asked.

“What Lieutenant Nacto is referring to, Captain, is a secret that must not be uttered outside of those present.”

Jag nodded. “Understood.”

“I’m not sure I should even divulge this information,” Samol said. “Both my former commander and I have been quite cavalier, dare I say reckless, in providing you with as much information as we already have. Though as I’ve said, Commander Hackan saw something unique in you, Captain Girran—as do I. You have given me no reason to distrust you, however unwilling I may have been to grant you that trust so many years ago.”

Samol paused and glanced at Nacto before continuing. “That being said,” he reached into a pocket on the inside of his uniform and removed a small object, “I believe you will find this most helpful. That device will interface with your ship’s administrator—ArDee, I believe you called him?—and provide you with a set of coordinates.”

“Coordinates for what?”

“You remember the tale Commander Hackan told you? The story of Thrawn?” Samol asked.

“I do.”

Since Jag’s last encounter with the Chiss, Grand Admiral Thrawn had nearly brought the galaxy to its knees and restored the Empire to its former standing. And he did it with a fraction of the resources the Emperor had once wielded.

“What Commander Hackan failed to elaborate on was a massive base of operations Thrawn established just beyond the borders of the Chiss Ascendancy.”

“I recall Hackan mentioning that, yes,” Jag said.

“He _mentioned_ it, though nothing more. During his ‘pacification’ of many of the systems surrounding the Ascendancy, Thrawn recruited some of the Ascendancy’s best military minds and fighters, much to the dismay of the Ruling Families. Prior to unleashing his genius on your civilization’s New Republic, he dispatched groups of soldiers across our realm and yours, presumably to wait until called upon and serve as garrisons in areas he considered vulnerable.

“His death, however, rendered many of those groups useless, their activation orders known only to himself and his inner circle. Contained on that device are the locations and clearance codes required to gain access to several of those groups.”

“How could you possibly have this information?” Jag asked. “Given your loyalty to the Ascendancy and its laws, I have a difficult time believing you would be in league with Thrawn’s personal empire.”

“I am honor-bound to uphold the Ascendancy’s _setzahs_ , Captain. I would not dare betray them. The information on that device was given to me, in confidence, by Commander Hackan.”

Jag felt his eyes almost pop out of his skull. “ _Commander Hackan?_ ”

“Yes, Captain. Though my former commander once promised to not betray the Ascendancy, the allure of Thrawn’s private military seemed too much to resist. He abandoned his men shortly after your encounter with him.”

“Then why did he come back?”

“When I last spoke to him, it was shortly before his death—perhaps days before. Thrawn was dead, his forces scattered or destroyed. Hackan had no interest in serving anyone besides Thrawn, and he was already dead as far as the Ascendancy was concerned. He considered this information vital enough to protect, and apparently decided I was the only one he could still trust.”

Samol sighed. “A shame, really. He was a brilliant and noble man who served the Ascendancy well, but his name will never be remembered beyond those who fought with him.”

Jag said nothing for a moment, for fear of interrupting whatever reminiscences Samol was entertaining.

“I assume this is not your only copy?” he eventually asked.

Samol chuckled. “Do you think me a fool?”

“I—never mind.”

“Commander, with your permission…” Nacto said quietly.

“No, Lieutenant Nacto, you may not join Captain Girran,” Samol said sternly, anticipating his subordinate’s request. “Though I must admit I find curious your desire to assist a man you met only a few hours ago.”

A muscle twitched in Nacto’s cheek. “I find his convictions admirable.”

“I certainly hope not. I’ll not have anyone under my command abandon their post.”

“ _V’brepstanen_.”

Jag clapped Nacto on the shoulder. “Your offer is certainly appreciated. As is this data, Commander. Yet again you have placed me in your debt.”

“Perhaps one day, Captain, I may agree with you. Until then, you may again show your gratitude by ensuring the information we have provided you remain in your possession—and yours alone.”

“You have my word.”

“For more, I cannot ask.” Samol stepped toward the entrance to their concealed location, which opened automatically once he was within a meter of it. “In the meantime, there is something you should see.” 


	25. Chapter 25

After several minutes of travel through the sterile corridors of Samol’s ship, Jag and his Chiss escorts reached their destination. Nacto accessed another concealed control panel that was quite similar to the one Samol had manipulated earlier.

“Incredible technology,” Jag marveled aloud.

Samol offered a small smile. “It’s Chiss.”

The door opened, revealing a large hangar.

“How is there enough room for this on this ship?”

“Our vessels are deceptive in both their size and capacity, Captain,” Nacto said.

“You don’t say.”

There were at least three squadrons of the starfighters Jag had seen during the battle with Vius’ cruiser, as well as various support craft like the boarding shuttles the Chiss had used earlier. As they walked through the hangar, Jag paused near one of the starfighters.

“The design of these fighters…” He ran a hand along one of the curved wings. “It’s eerily familiar. It’s as though your people cannibalized every TIE fighter the Empire has left.”

“The similarity is hardly a coincidence. Much of the credit for the implementation of this design lies with Commanders Thrawn and Hackan,” Samol explained. “It was Hackan who remained in contact with his sources within the Ascendancy after his departure. Between him and Thrawn, they saw what your Empire—and New Republic—had to offer in terms of starfighters and felt it pertinent to improve our designs, should our respective civilizations ever engage one another.”

Jag nodded absently as he continued to inspect the ship. “Incredible. Improved sightlines, more weaponry…” He tailed off as he walked around the rear of the ship. “Is this a _hyperdrive?_ ”

“Our version, yes.”

“Incredible,” Jag said again. “Beautiful ships, Commander. Very impressive.”

The Chiss bowed his head in thanks. “Your compliments are appreciated, Captain. But if we may continue?”

Samol and Nacto led Jag through the rows of fighters and stopped once they passed the last row. Jag slowly continued forward. In front of him, surrounded by a few small teams of Chiss technicians, sat the _Spartus_.

“I thought ArDee would’ve slipped back to hyperspace after alerting you.”

“Well…he tried.”

Jag stopped came to a halt. “‘ _Tried?_ ’”

“I am afraid we were forced to use something similar to what your people call a ‘tractor beam’ in order to prevent the ship from fleeing,” Samol said. “Until we could verify that the ship was unoccupied, it was far too dangerous to allow the vessel to escape. I am sure you understand, Captain.”

He nodded. “Of course, Commander.” Still, Jag shook his head and sighed. “It’s going to be a real pain fixing the hyperdrive. I’m sure ArDee managed to burn it out trying to escape the tractor beam.”

“Actually,” Nacto chimed in, “we took care of that for you.”

Jag turned back to look at the lieutenant and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Indeed. We also made some…improvements. Your ship’s computer system seemed very receptive to my technicians’ proposals, and based on its own analysis and projections, determined their work to be quite satisfactory.”

“In that case, I think I’ll be leaving a bit sooner than I’d anticipated.”

“I had hoped that would be the case, Captain,” Samol said. “While your company is hardly a burden, it is bit of a minor inconvenience. My men and I have other matters to attend to.”

“I’m sure they do,” Jag chuckled. “Though if you would suffer that inconvenience for a few more minutes?”

Samol nodded once. “Of course.”

Jag did a quick inspection of the _Spartus_ ’ hull. Everything seemed fine at a glance; in fact, the ship actually looked cleaner. Perhaps the Chiss had found time to wash down the hull after they had finished with the hyperdrive. Given how quickly he had seen them complete other tasks, it would not have surprised.

“I’ll be several more minutes once I’m on board, but everything appears to be in perfect order,” Jag said.

“As it should,” Samol said. “Those tasked with working on your ship were instructed to exercise extreme caution. As my former commander pointed out so many years ago, you are a mercenary, and while our civilizations may be quite different from one another, at least one commonality is the paranoia and lethality of beings of your ilk.”

Jag smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Commander.”

“I would hope so, Captain,” Samol said as his eyebrow twitched. “Your resourcefulness is admirable.”

Jag turned to Nacto and inclined his head, then extended his hand. “Lieutenant Nacto, it was a pleasure.”

Nacto bypassed Jag’s hand and gripped his forearm instead. “Indeed it was, Captain. I hope our paths cross again, but under more pleasant circumstances.” Nacto released Jag’s forearm and inclined his head before backing several steps away.

“Commander Samol, I cannot begin to express my gratitude.”

The Chiss grunted dismissively. “It was a fitting response given your actions, Captain. While your efforts to warn us may have ultimately been self-serving, you warned us nonetheless. And perhaps more importantly, you have stayed true to the promise you made to Commander Hackan—and to the Ascendancy. Our borders remain secure, in part because of your refusal to disseminate the information we provided you.

“Our societies will one day be forced upon each other, and while I can only hope that our interactions are amicable, your actions speak to the potential character your people possess. Should the galaxy beyond the Ascendancy’s borders ever call on us for aid in my lifetime, I will be sure to remind my people of that.”

Jag smiled and bowed at the hip. “Commander, your words are kind—perhaps too much. I hope that what I’m preparing to do will not taint your opinion of me.”

“It most certainly will not,” Samol said somberly. “My people believe in justice. Succeed in your endeavor, and my opinion will remain unsullied.”

As Jag pulled his helmet on, he blinked at the activator for the uplink with ArDee and the _Spartus_.

“Until next time, Commander.” He exchanged the same embrace as he had with Nacto and started toward his ship’s boarding ramp.

“Commander, before I forget,” he called out over his shoulder. “I’ve heard rumblings about some sort of ‘purge’ in an area we call the Koornacht Cluster. That’s your side of the Core. Might want to look into it.”

“Thank you, Captain. And should any potential conflict spill into the Ascendancy, I assure you, we will most certainly ‘look into it.’”

Jag smiled as he trotted up the ramp.

_That’s something I_ might _just be willing to pay to see._

 

***

 

The prelaunch checks and startup protocols proceeded without incident. Within ten minutes of Jag’s boarding, the _Spartus_ had lifted from the hangar deck of the Chiss cruiser and burst into the blackness of space beyond the hangar’s gravitational field. For good measure, Jag ran the ship through a series of maneuvers, some so intense that he felt his stomach begin to turn, even with the inertial compensators cranked to their maximum setting.

Once he was satisfied the _Spartus_ was performing to his standards, he connected the ship to one of the ventral airlocks of the CR90a corvette that had brought him to the Chiss, doing his best to conceal his ship against the corvette’s hull. He powered down the engines and ran through the usual post-flight diagnostics.

“I’d really like to give her a run at lightspeed.”

“In that case sir, I find your decision to dock the ship a bit peculiar,” ArDee said.

“Yeah,” Jag said. “About that.”

Once the _Spartus_ started its automated and final set of shutdown checks he exited the cockpit and headed for the compartments where he had hidden his weapons prior to being boarded by Vius’ men. While he checked the levels of the power packs on the weapons, Jag started explaining his plan to ArDee.

“I’m going to need you to interface with the corvette’s system and find a way to copilot it.”

“Sir, you may not have noticed, but that ship is not a freighter or starfighter. The number of crewmen necessary to pilot a vessel of that size well exceeds that of this—”

“ArDee, can your programming handle it or not?”

There was a pause before the Coruscanti-accented voice answered.

“Yes, sir. I’ve altered my programming in a way that should compensate for the increased output this task will require.”

“Uh, what exactly did you alter, ArDee?” Jag asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Nothing serious, sir. Just removed some redundant navigational functions.”

“How redundant? And can it be reversed?”

“Quite. And of course, sir,” ArDee said. “At least, I believe so.”

Jag rolled his eyes. “Wonderful.” His weapons check complete, he hit the switch for the exterior hatch and exited the ship. “Hopefully ditching those ‘redundant’ functions doesn’t land us in the middle of a supernova or a black hole.”

“Doubtful, sir. In fact, the probability of either of those scenarios occurring is exactly—”

“Not interested.”

He cautiously made his way to the bridge of the presumably empty ship, fighting the uneasy feeling that continued to creep up his spine along the way. The bodies that he and the Chiss had left behind during their siege still laid where they had fallen. Several hours had passed, yet much of the damage still appeared fresh. Although ArDee’s initial scans revealed no additional life forms on the vessel, Jag’s chosen profession had provided ample examples of what happens to those who don’t exercise excessive caution.

The gaping hole in the ceiling created by the Chiss strike team had produced a bit of a security hazard. While the primary blast doors sealed the bridge against any strike advancing along the predictable routes, anyone with an imagination had a perfect entry point waiting for them.

“You’ll need to run nearly continuous scans,” Jag said into his helmet’s mic. “Or did that task get labeled ‘redundant?’”

“Sir, your condescension is unnecessary,” ArDee quipped.

“It’s not my fault you went ahead and wiped away who-knows-what from your memory banks without mentioning it to me.”

There was a short silence. “Point taken, sir. I will be sure to utilize a more diplomatic approach the next time such a need for deletion arrives.”

Jag grunted. “You said something about condescension?”

The next hour was primarily dedicated to acclimating ArDee with the cruiser’s systems and charting the jumps necessary to bring them to the first Chiss cell Jag decided to call upon. It was not a simple task. Several times the system attempted to wipe itself clean. However, ArDee was able to prevent the failsafe from launching each time while simultaneously increasing his own influence over the cruiser’s main computer.

Aside from the occasional update from ArDee, Jag continued to study the list Samol had given him. There were five locations he had selected, all of them more or less along the route to Surellia. While the list was certainly helpful, it did not guarantee cooperation.

To these Chiss, Jag was an alien, an outsider—he was not to be trusted. He understood and accepted that, though it granted little consolation. Still, he had to try. Otherwise, Surellia would burn and anyone left in the galaxy whose relationship with him could be defined as anything other than tumultuous would share the same fate as Mech and Bregen.

When ArDee finally announced it had complete control over the ship, Jag plugged whatever data he could into the cruiser’s databanks and let ArDee take over.

“Sir, you are aware that some of these locations require we pass through staked territory,” ArDee cautioned.

“Well aware,” Jag said. “The first couple should proceed without incident, and if we’re fortunate enough to obtain allies at those stops, any unexpected interference thereafter will be inconsequential, that much I can assure you.”

“Very well, sir.”

The deck plating began to gently vibrate as the corvette’s massive engine bank roared to life. Jag took a seat in the captain’s chair and leaned his head back. His body sagged as it finally had the relief it had been yearning for since his escape from captivity.

Jag tapped a command on the chair which opened the cover of a terminal. He slipped a small datacard into the designated slot then closed the cover.

“ArDee.”

“Sir?”

“Decrypt and implement the directive stored on that datacard.”

Though only a brilliant assembly of circuitry, Jag was certain he could feel ArDee’s hesitation as it processed the information.

“Are you sure, sir?”

Jag exhaled heavily before answering. “Yes. This ship belongs to my family, and my family alone. If I fail, you must not.”

“If a machine were capable of feeling honored, sir…”

Jag smiled. “I know what you mean, ArDee. And it has been honor to work with _you_.”

As the stars transitioned to starlines and the familiar whine of the hyperdrive engaging echoed off the walls of the bridge, Jag’s eyes slowly closed, hoping for even the briefest moment of rest. He offered no resistance to the onset of slumber, knowing that the task that lay before him would be brutally unforgiving, and that he would need the totality of his resolve.


End file.
